


they say he turns into a wolf at night

by emmaliza



Series: The Kings of Winter [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (also it's not even an au or possibly it is), (because you didn't that's why), (kinda), Ableist Language, Angst, Bad Sex, Blindfolds, Bondage, Breathplay, Bukkake, Canonical Character Death, Communication Failure, Confusing amalgamation of book and show canon, Dirty Talk, Dreams and Nightmares, Dubious Consent, F/M, Face Slapping, Fisting, Gangbang, Glory Hole, Guilt, Half-Sibling Incest, Hallucinations, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Like really disturbing imagery, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mildly Dubious Consent, Misogyny, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Outdoor Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prophetic Visions, Prostitution, Pseudo-Incest, Public Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Rough Sex, Self-Harm, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys, Sexual Fantasy, Shame, Spanking, Spitroasting, Stream of Consciousness, Teasing, Unreliable Narrator, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, Voyeurism, Whipping, disturbing imagery, in which I totally ruin all that nice porn you were enjoying, robb is really starting to lose his shit, the belle de jour au you never knew you needed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 01:10:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 71,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8080903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: "You want him to do it to you."
In which Robb takes on new duties, or mayhaps, mayhaps he doesn't.





	1. heatstroke

**Author's Note:**

> So, for a deeply pretentious fic, this has a very silly origin story. Basically during one of my fic trawls I thought "hey, has anyone ever written a Robb/Theon hooker AU where Robb was the hooker?" And then, as I tried to make that premise make sense, the damn thing got away from me and turned into an overly complicated Belle de Jour AU that's not even an AU. This shouldn't surprise anyone really.
> 
> Though the more I think about it, the more surprised I am Belle de Jour AU's aren't a bigger thing in fandom. Particularly in this fandom, where everyone's all well-bred and repressed and shit.

The woods are getting denser now, and louder – there isn't much to hear, but what there is seems to echo: bird calls and leaves crunching and the trotting of horses. “Keep up, Stark,” Theon grins from ahead of him, but Robb feels no need to rush.

It's good. Theon insists on him getting outside the castle walls and doing _something_ at least once a day, even if it's nothing more than a quick ride. Robb shudders to think of what else Theon would regard as _something_ , but riding is good. There's so much going on now, with Mother not back yet and everyone else gone for so long, with Bran and the Lannisters and just Winterfell, because Gods, he never truly knew how big this place was until he had to run it. If it weren't for Theon, he'd sit on that Lord's chair all day praying he might feel like one soon. But riding is good. This forest is maybe the last place in the North he can relax.

The rhythm of the horse underneath him is slow, comforting. She's an old thing, and maybe a little small, but tough – durable. Robb's rather fond of her.

“Theon, I think we should stop. I need a drink,” he says, and Theon rolls his eyes but does so, dismounting ungracefully. His horse is a stallion, black and terrifying and likely to buck and kill him soon. Of course it is. Like Theon would settle for anything less.

Robb dismounts also and sighs, leaning against his girl for a moment. Theon smirks and pulls two flasks from either hip. “Water or wine?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You carry both?”

“Of course.”

Robb rolls his eyes, and decides. “Water.”

Theon snorts. “Of course. Starks.” But he hands it over without complaint. It's cold and clear and soothes Robb's raw throat.

“Now the wine,” he says. Theon looks surprised. “Well if you have both.”

It's cheap stuff, bitter and tangy and Theon probably got it from the brothel, but it does the trick. It warms Robb's guts and leaves his throat raw once more – but not unpleasantly so. “It's dark here,” he comments idly.

Theon grins. “Aye, it is. So many trees. Can't see a thing,” he says. “But you sure can hear a thing.”

Robb's puzzled, but from the look on Theon's face he thinks he knows where this is going. “Girl I fucked here once,” Theon says. “Screamed so loud I think they heard her in the Vale.”

A blush rises to Robb's cheeks automatically, and he doesn't bother to fight it, instead just sighing and rolling his eyes. If Jon were here, he'd snap at Greyjoy and his boasts of conquest – but Jon is not here. Robb doesn't want to _snap_ at Theon, not when sometimes he thinks Theon is the only thing keeping him sane. Still, something about the story strikes a chord with Robb.

“What, you fucked her here, in the forest?” Theon nods, proud. “...On what?”

“Right into the dirt, little lordling. On her hands and knees like an animal.” Robb half wants to punch him. He loves Theon like a brother, but no trueborn Stark talks about women such a way – and Jon never would – not even whores, like this woman probably was. “Didn't even let her into the castle to wash off. Just left her here and went on my merry way.”

Theon is trying to bait him, Robb knows he is, but he doesn't think it's having quite the response Theon intended. There is a flush rising through his body, from his legs to his neck, but he can't say it's all from anger. _What's he playing at?_

“It make you mad Stark? It shouldn't. She loved it, begged me for more of it, begged me to push her down and call her a whore. Even begged me to smack her in the face, but that's not my sort of thing. Think she must of have been a septon's daughter, something like that.”

“Septons can't have children, Theon,” Robb says, because he knows enough of his mother's religion to know that.

“Oh, they can, they're just not meant to,” Theon says. Robb sighs, missing Jon more than usual.

When he closes his eyes, he can see it though. Theon fucking some poor girl from behind, rough and wild and uncontrollable. The girl down on her knees, totally naked, moaning and filthy with Theon's cock plowing her open. A septon's daughter, yes, she knows she shouldn't, knows if she must let a man take her outside wedlock she should at least insist on soft sheets and words of love, or even just a bed, but instead she can't help but love being rutted in the woods like an animal. Like a wolf.

He knows it's not some girl he's seeing.

Theon laughs as Robb adjusts his breeches as subtly as possible, and Robb only blushes deeper. “Oh, no so above it after all, are we Stark? You like that thought, fucking some cheap whore out here where anyone could see. Disgracing her. _Ruining_ her. And making her thank you for the privilege.”

Robb shakes his head. _No, that's not the thought I like._ “She's a whore, Theon, she'll tell you whatever you pay her to,” he says, trying to collect his head.

Theon laughs. “Mayhaps, but I wasn't talking about a literal whore. Septon's daughter, remember?” There's no reason a septon's daughter shouldn't be a literal whore, but he sees what Theon's getting at. “No, this one was highborn. Had a father and brothers who would have been very angry if word reached them. Came to me in silk and velvet and begged me to tear it off her.”

Robb closes his eyes. That proves a mistake, because oh gods, he can _see_ it, the dirt and the velvet and Theon's smug fucking face, and he can hear cries echoing through the woods, so loud they'll hear them down in King's Landing–

“See, whores will let you do anything to them – that's their job,” Theon explains like he's handing down wisdom from the old gods themselves. “But the noble ladies – they _want_ you to do anything to them. They want to ruin themselves for you. They want you to treat them like whores.”

Robb bites his lip not to moan. It's not some girl he sees, no, it's _him_ , him on his hands and knees with Theon's cock plowing him open, using him like a cheap bit of skin he picked up from the brothel with his rancid wine. When he sees it Theon's still in his fine clothes, black and gold like a prince, and Robb is shivering and bare, totally exposed in the cold air. It hurts, and it's humiliating, but the crueller Theon fucks him the more he wants of it, he begs Theon to do it harder, faster, _take_ him. He begs Theon to smack his face and call him a whore. Theon does it, pulls out of him and grabs Robb by the hair, smacks him until he bruises and then takes his cock in hand. Comes all over Robb's face, marking his territory. Then just _leaves_ him there, hard and naked and wanting.

“I'm sure that's not true for _all_ of them,” Robb protests, thinking of little Sansa, so perfect and pure – she would never, of course.

Theon shrugs. “Well yeah, probably not,” he says. “But more girls than you might think, Stark.”

 _And the boys?_ he wants to ask, but he's not that stupid. He says nothing, and Theon chuckles. “Who knows, if I run into that girl again, maybe I'll let you share her with me. I think she'd like that.”

 _You and I won't be the ones sharing._ He sees himself fighting _some girl_ for Theon's attention, spreading his legs and pouting his lips like a whore short on customers, desperate to prove he's the one who deserves Theon's cock. He would humiliate himself for it, but it would be worth it once he had than burning heat inside him and the girl could only look on in bitter jealousy.

“You will not,” Robb says, somehow sounding the perfect lordling even with his face bright red and trying to hide the lump in his breeches. He sighs. “We should head back to the castle. I promised Bran I'd help him with his letters.”

Theon smirks. “Whatever you say, my lord,” he says, and Robb just shakes his head as he mounts once more. He stays ahead of Theon this time, not wanting to look at him (or perhaps wanting to look at him too much) but the whole way there he can feel Theon's eyes on him. _Is that better, or worse?_

* * *

Ros is in the castle again.

Robb really ought to say something to Theon about it, but he can't really bring himself to, not when Theon's been so helpful these past few weeks and besides, Robb's not sure he could talk about it without blushing and that would hardly establish his authority. If Mother comes back and she's furious with him for allowing Theon to corrupt her children's morals, so be it. _It's not like Bran will ever be able to_ –

He flinches and shakes the thought away. They don't know that for certain, and he's too young to worry about it yet. Wasn't he going to join the Kingsguard anyway?

Ros is loud, and Robb's not sure if Theon pays her for that in particular or she does that for all her clients (or maybe she really does enjoy it that much), but it keeps him up and keeps him hot. He throws the furs from his bed, trying to relax into cool sheets, but it does no good. His body splays across the bed like it's trying to escape itself, he flushes red and looks at his hardness rising up in front of him. _If someone saw me right now, what would they think?_

They'd think he's just a green boy, turned on by the sound of a whore faking her pleasure. A strange wave of disappointment crashes over him. Theon would laugh, and the thought makes the disappointment abate.

He is too hot.

Finally he stands, shaky on his feet, and makes his way over to the basin. He wets the cloth and pushes it to his brow, gasping at the touch of the cold – it cools him slightly, wiping the sweat away, but it doesn't make him look any better. The water debauches him, his hair curls and clings to his skin like it's begging for something, and his mouth still hangs open, panting. Quickly, he wets the cloth again and shoves it in his mouth, biting the cold water into him. It drips down his spine and it helps but Gods, look at him. Stuffed and gagged so he can't even scream. _If someone saw–_ he pulls the damned thing from him in a hurry.

Ros is begging now.

“Fuck, harder Theon, harder, please!”

Why harder? Isn't the whore's job to make her client think, however he's fucking her, it's the best way anyone's ever been fucked? At least, that's what Theon told him. He blushes at the sound of his own thoughts, or he would do if he weren't already bright red, his cheeks seizing all the blood that's not needed... elsewhere. Mayhaps Theon just doesn't do it well. Mayhaps he's too soft, too gentle, so even a whore can't stand it; she has to beg for something rough and ready and desperate.

Or mayhaps he's very good. So good she forgets she's meant to please him, flatter him, she forgets it all in the sheer need to have more of his cock, now.

Robb is too hot.

It's embarrassing, but he finds himself wetting the cloth once more with shaking hands, then stuffs it down his breeches. He gives a girlish shriek of pain and shock, but that settles soon, and he lets out a moan as relief washes over him and his prick, red and swollen and sore, starts to relax. He can see it through his soaked breeches, and he groans, moving to change them.

“You like that, you little slut?”

Robb closes his eyes at the sound of Theon's question. _She's a whore. She'll say she likes it if you pay her to._ But Robb, Robb would like it, he'd nod and say _yes m'lord_ and Theon would never even have to pay him.

He throws on his new breeches in a rush. He needs to get out of here, else he'll go mad.

* * *

Mayhaps he does it on purpose, wandering the corridors until the sounds fade. He should do something, check on the accounts or the stables or the kennels or Bran and Rickon, but he's not quite cool enough yet, still drumming his fingers along stone walls and feeling the heat that runs through the castle. Gods, did he never notice it before?

He should have known he'd run into her. Ros looks mildly surprised, a little nervous, but she smiles and gives a small nod of her head. “Lord Stark,” she says. “I don't usually see you when I leave.”

“I'm usually asleep at this hour,” he explains, and she looks apologetic.

“Oh, sorry. Were we keeping you up?”

He shakes his head, even though it's completely true. “Don't worry, I'm used to it. It's hardly the first time Theon has done this.”

She laughs. “True. Though I think he's becoming a bit braver with your mother and father gone.” _They are not dead,_ Robb wants to say, but he shakes the thought away. She didn't mean it like that.

It is remarkable, how composed she is right after – after that. _He must not have done it hard enough._ Robb shakes his head. It sounds like Theon did it as hard as he liked, and besides, it's none of his business.

“Right, well... this has been sufficiently uncomfortable, and that means something from a girl in my profession.” She makes him laugh, with her cocky smirk and piercing eyes. Theon's always thought too much of himself, and there is something of him in her. Of course, she's a redhead with curls; there's something of Robb in her too. “So, I'll be on my way.”

There is something in the way she walks, like a woman completely content. “Wait!” he calls after her.

She turns back, and frowns, puzzled.

“Are you alright?” he asks, and cringes at what a fool he sounds. “I mean... is there anything I could do for you?”

A pause, and then she laughs. “You know, if you were anyone else I'd assume you were asking me if I was up for another round.” He blushes, but luckily she doesn't take that as affirmation. “Starks. Even the local whores are your valued subjects, to be looked after. We're lucky to have you.”

Somehow, that makes him blush deeper than her fucking Theon ever did. “Well our ward is very fond of you,” he teases, and she laughs again, but he doesn't really know how true it is or whether he should call Theon that – _my ward, my father's ward, our hostage, something else_? “We should look after you, else there will be trouble.”

“Theon doesn't know much about taking care of his toys,” she says. _Is that what you are Ros? A toy? Is that what I would be if he–_ “You know, I am a little peckish.”

“I can run you down to the kitchens if you like.”

She wrinkles her nose. “I wouldn't want to wake the cooks at this hour. Bad enough I dragged you out of bed.”

“Oh no, don't worry. I'm pretty sure we have some spare cakes in the larder.”

She thinks this over, then shrugs. “Well alright then.”

He blinks. That was easier than he expected it to be. “Er, alright then,” he says, and on instinct he offers his arm for her to take. She smiles.

“Such a gentleman,” she says, and off they go, lordling and whore, linked.

* * *

“They're a bit crumbly, and I think they've been there a couple of days, they might be a little stale. Sorry.”

She moans as she forces an orange monstrosity whole down her throat. _How much have you practiced that?_ “Lord Stark, these are nicer than anything I've ever eaten in my life.”

“Oh.” He looks at her, and the great array of leftovers he's spread before her – food that probably would only have gone to the dogs or the birds otherwise. He feels terribly guilty. “I'm sorry.”

She shakes her head. “Don't be like that. Look at my breasts.” She puffs her chest out proudly, and he blushes. “Do I look like a woman who doesn't get enough to eat?”

“I – no. Sorry.” He feels like such a green boy with her, even though he knows she's not trying to mock him – why would she; he's the acting Warden of the North and she's a common prostitute, he doesn't know her well but he thinks she has decent survival instincts.

“You don't have to be so embarrassed. It's nice you're concerned with whether the whores are fed well. You'll be a very good lord some day, Robb Stark.” _But I am not one yet._ “But I get along. Maybe not featherlight cakes and freshly caught venison, but I have bread in my larder and chicken fairly often, beef on special occasions. What I do pays well. Theon probably buys me at least a half pound of cheese a week.”

Robb laughs. “Theon doesn't much like cheese,” he says. Then he thinks some more. “Is that why you do... this? It just pays better than anything else?”

She shrugs. “Mostly. I mean, that's why I started. That and I thought, I have a pretty face, might as well use it.”

He nods. _Such a handsome young man,_ he remembers some Lady he barely knows cooing three or so years ago now, maybe one of the Mallisters or Manderlys. “Do you enjoy it?”

“Sometimes.”

He says nothing, keeps looking on, waiting for her to elaborate. _Just tell me Ros: would I like it as much as I think I would?_ “It depends, a little. On what they do, on what mood I'm in, on who they are, mostly. Some clients I like more than others.”

“Theon?” Robb asks. “Do you enjoy him?”

“Again, sometimes.” Robb frowns. “I'd say he's in my top half. He pays well, and he makes me peak, say, six, maybe seven times out of ten. It's a much better ratio than a lot of men manage. Granted, he's got a big cock, nice and thick, so that helps – it's not really skill that makes him enjoyable; really, he's a bit too selfish for that.”

Robb nods, blushing again, of course he is. That all squares with the Theon he's known so many years, but it strikes him just how matter of fact she is discussing it. He supposes you lose the ability to blush, in her profession. _Selfish._ The thought makes him blush deeper. _I wouldn't mind if you were selfish with me, Theon, while you fucked me with your big cock._

Ros suddenly bites her lip, something clouding over her eye. Robb frowns. “But?”

She sighs. “He gets a little rough, sometimes. Nothing terrible, nothing I can't handle, and I think he feels guilty about it – even if Theon's not really the type to admit to feeling guilty about anything.” A pause. “Really, I think it's hostage issues. He feels the need to assert his dominance, take back some power.”

Robb takes a deep breath and tries not to groan. _Hostage issues. And I'm the one holding him hostage._ He can see it, him on his back with Theon pinning him to the bed, beaten and crying while Theon fucks out every last fear of Ned Stark's sword he's ever had. _Nothing terrible,_ Ros said, but Robb wants it. He wants it terrible.

She raises an eyebrow. “What's it to you, anyway?”

He snaps back to reality and blushes even deeper (really, it's a miracle he hasn't fainted from the blood not going to the rest of his body). “I – nothing,” he stutters, not terribly convincing. “Just – what you said. Looking after the local whores. Doing my duty.”

She laughs. “Whatever you say, Lord Stark.” He should run, he should stop this, he should get rid of her somehow before she learns something he can't afford her knowing. But he's already brought her into the kitchen, and he finds himself sitting next to her, sliding onto the bench to grab a cake. His thigh brushes hers. _Theon's come is probably still under her dress._ He frowns as he chews, eating slower than she did – they are a little stale. She probably didn't even notice, but he can't help himself.

 _Mother would not approve_ , he suddenly thinks with blinding clarity. She'd be mildly annoyed about Theon sneaking her into the castle, but she'd let it go with nothing but a sigh and an irritated look. Theon was, after all, only hiring Ros to do her job. But this, her son, her heir and precious firstborn sharing food and japes with a common prostitute like they're equals – that would bother Mother far more. She's like that. She doesn't mind whores, as long as they know their place – and as long as they don't send their children under her roof.

_I miss you, Jon._

Ros just looks at him, curious, and he blushes deeper under her gaze. _She's just a whore,_ he thinks, and feels guilty for it. She isn't _just_ a whore, she's funny and bright and even kind. It isn't like he has no idea why Theon is so fond of her. But she scares him. Why does she seem to know so much of what he thinks? _Mayhaps whores can sense one another._

As if on cue, he feels her thigh pressing harder against his. “It's not always so bad, when Theon's rough with me,” she whispers, low and soft and knowing.

Robb gulps, crumbs falling from his fingers, and even in his thin nightshirt and breeches, in the cold kitchens without an oven or stove to warm them, he's too hot.

“Sometimes it's nice,” he says. “When he holds me down. He has strong hands, they wrap so easily around my wrists. Sometimes I just moan as he fucks his way through me, like I'm not even there, like I'm just a passage to something far more important.”

Robb closes his eyes and can't be bothered to try not to imagine it. He sees Theon above him, rutting like a dog, forcing Robb open as if he'll find something inside. _Father, most likely._ Yes, that would be it. Theon would ruin Ned Stark's firstborn, take him and make him his own, like the Starks had taken Theon for their own. _Do it, Theon. I won't fight. I'll be your whore, your saltwife, whatever you want, just fuck me hard like a little lordling shouldn't want._

“Sometimes I think I'm really not there,” Ros' voice is lower now and he can barely hear her, but he can feel her, he can feel her hand softly creeping up his thigh, slow, soft and reverent. He should stop it, for he has been warned against buying whores, against dishonouring himself so, but surely it's just a hand? He can hardly father a bastard like this. _I want so much more than a hand._ “It's like everything I am, my mind, my thoughts, my name, it just... floats away. Until I'm nothing but a hole for his cock. Until I think the second he stops fucking me, I might just cease to exist.”

Robb moans as Ros' hand closes over his cock in his breeches, rubbing oh so gently. _She knows. Seven hells, how can she know so well?_ “He doesn't even like to touch me,” she says. “Sometimes he does, but more often than not, he likes to prove his cock his good enough to make me come on its own. And usually, he succeeds. I know I shouldn't let him, he doesn't need the ego boost, but I can't help myself. It's like falling into an abyss, Lord Stark, somewhere deep and black where you don't think anyone will ever find you again. You don't want them to. You just want to stay there, with his cock inside you, making you into what you were always meant to be. A whore.”

Robb whimpers like an animal in a trap. Her hand squeezes around him tight as she whispers in his ear, leaning in for the kill.

“You want him to do it to you.”

Robb squeals and spends in his breeches.

He shudders as pleasure crashes over him, leaving him mute and brainless. _Like falling into an abyss._ He finds himself though, sticky with Theon's favourite whore's hand on his prick in the Winterfell kitchens, and he finds her too, smiling softly as she strokes him through it. Her touch seems as much to comfort as to pleasure now.

The embarrassment hits him once more, rich and all-consuming. _A green boy_ , he thinks. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I – my purse is back in my chambers, I can fetch it–”

She seems puzzled. “Hmm? Oh, don't worry about it. Theon paid me well enough tonight, and besides, that really wasn't a lot of effort. I wouldn't feel right charging for it.” She gives him that teasing smile, but it's not a cruel tease. “Us whores have a sense of honour of our own.”

 _Us._ He looks away in shame, and her hand moves back to his thigh, rubbing there softly – like one would pet a whimpering dog. “I'm not judging you, Robb,” she says. “I mean, I'm a whore. I can hardly hate you for wanting to be one.”

 _But I am the heir to Winterfell,_ he thinks. _I shouldn't want it. I shouldn't want any of it. Mayhaps that's the reason I do._

She sighs and pulls away. He still can't bring himself to look at her. “You know, if you're so curious, you could come to the brothel some time.”

He looks up at her, shocked and bewildered. He almost wants to tell her she should not speak to her future lord so, but after the things she just _said_ to her future lord – but what whore could give him what he wants? A boy whore? Perhaps, but it wouldn't be the same. _Unless she means me to be the whore._

He wants to think it's a cruel jape, but her eyes are as kind as ever. He's left spluttering at her. “But – how would I–”

“You're a man of status, Lord Stark.” She tosses her hair and, before she stands and leaves, smirks. “You'd be surprised what you can get away with.”


	2. black holes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter what this does for him Father will still be gone, and so will Sansa and Arya and Jon and Mother, Mother should be back by now and he tries not to worry but he does, and Bran still won't be able to walk, and Theon will still be there with his whores and he'll be a temptation until the day Robb dies. But he needs to do it once. He needs to know what it's like.
> 
> Not that he even knows what he's about to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've made it to the proper porn! *fanfare* So, this chapter's kind of long, and kind of weirdly divided, since I didn't want everything to go on in just once massive scene. Sorry about that.

Robb doesn't touch himself very often.

Theon's never believed him when he says that, and even though he didn't say as much, he knows Jon didn't either, but it's the truth. It's his mother's fault, really, her and the Mother and the Father. The Seven are particular about what his seed is for – for creating new life, the life he will have with his lady wife and the babes she will bear him, and he should not spill it just to please himself. The Old Gods aren't like that – there are some things they frown upon (and how Robb has thought about some of the things they frown upon), but a boy taking himself in hand is not one of them. And the Drowned God, well, frankly nothing Theon's ever told him about the Drowned God has ever made much sense, but Robb can't see him forbidding his followers from making themselves come if that was what they wanted to do. _The Ironborn always take what they want_ , he remembers Theon telling him long ago, and a few days earlier; he says it often.

_Do you want me, Theon?_

He doesn't even keep his mother's gods, not really, he's a child of the North (born at Riverrun) – and yet he can always feel them watching him, even now. Especially now.

It's been three days since his talk (if that's what he's calling it) with Ros in the kitchens, and he cannot keep his hands off himself.

He's face down on his bed, on his knees, arse high in the air as his head starts to throb with the blood rushing to it. But his hands are too busy to keep himself upright. He's not taken his breeches off, not yet, but his shirt is somewhere thrown to the wayside as he rubs and pinches and scratches and claws at his own body, wishing more than anything it was someone else's hand doing it. He feels Theon's fingers, long and smooth and _strong_ , so brazen, so confident, seizing Robb like he knows he has every right to do so. He feels Ros' fingers, gentle and soft and knowing, touching him so kindly he knows she'll break him to pieces. Most terrifying of all, he feels fingers that aren't anyone's – at least, it doesn't matter whose they are, he'd let anyone do it, he just needs it, hands running over him and claiming him for their own.

He's not taken his breeches off, not yet, but who is he fooling?

_Forgive me, Mother._

His pants fall messily around his knees, he cannot spread his legs as far as he wants to ( _and how I want to spread my legs_ ) but he can't bring himself to stand and get rid of them. One hand is around his prick in an instant, the other still biting at a nipple so hard he squeals. He hisses in pain as he tries to stroke. It's too rough, too dry, even as his cock aches with frustration. He pulls his hand up and manages to spit on it, and it _barely_ helps but he can't bring himself to stop – he's too desperate, he just needs to be touched even if it hurts, and eventually his cock gets wet enough to work up some sort of rhythm. He thrusts his hips into the air in time, and his thoughts fall in sync, _fuck me, Theon, please, someone, anyone, put a cock in me, fuck me, fuck me–_

He has a finger in his mouth before he really thinks about it. A dozen half-remembered, half-understood japes swirl just below his mind and he shudders as he pushes the digit deeper, teasing his gag reflex. _I'm going to put my fingers inside me_ , he thinks, equal parts fear and shame and want, _because there's no man here to put his cock in me. But if there was, oh if there was–_

He tries forcing it inside and has to smother his shriek against the furs. It _hurts_. He tries again, and it's no better, oh gods, his own body is trying to stop him now. But he can't stop it, not with heat and lust and hard bodies in his mind, hands all over him, Theon's smug grin. _Is that too much for you, little lordling? Heir of Stark isn't man enough for such a big cock?_ He finally breaches himself with a gasp, and it's just the tip but it's pain and pleasure and above all violation – what would his mother think if she saw him like this? What would anyone?

What would _Theon_ think? Would he laugh in disbelief and disgust? Or would he take Robb by the hips and give him what he really wanted?

He tries screwing it in further but his body only seems to clench tighter when he tries. He could suck on it again, but he's not sure he wants to when it's already been inside him, and mayhaps he should have used his chamberpot before he did this but it's not like he realised _what_ he was going to do. _Please, please, just a little bit more –_ every bit is agony and yet he cannot stop, and gods, if he's squealing like a maid at his own finger how would he handle a real cock, and would anyone care if he couldn't handle it? _Would you, Theon? Or would you fuck me bloody if that's what it took to get you off?_

The finger forces its way deep enough to hit something and it makes Robb gasp and his prick jump in his hand. He strokes faster now, rougher and he's half-worried he'll bruise his cock but he can't stop, can't ever stop, mayhaps he'll just lie on this bed forever and some man will come fuck him and he'll never have to get up and deal with accounts and the guards and getting wood for the servants' quarters and all the fucking rest of it–

When he comes it's pain as much as it is pleasure and mayhaps, mayhaps those two things are not so far apart as they should be. He sobs like a child and his knees go out from under him, and he cries out in pain as his whole weight falls on his wrist – he manages to pull it away before he breaks anything, but it's close. He's left with his head throbbing and his breeches around his ankles and tears in his eyes, and so hot, so very hot.

_If you're so curious you could come to the brothel some time._

He shudders and forces his hands away from himself, trying to cool down. He couldn't, surely he couldn't. What would he even do? Someone would see him, Theon might see him, Theon might try to _buy_ him. Oh gods. But he can't, he can't, he is the Stark in Winterfell, he is, he is– 

* * *

He shouldn't bring Grey Wind. But he gets the impression the wolf won't stand for being left behind, and he doesn't think he'll be brave enough to go through with it without him. Which is why he should leave him behind, because then he'll get there and he'll turn bright red and go back home and forget all this madness. But no, he won't be able to forget, it'll keep haunting him when he has to attend to his peasants or pay the servants or order the guards, so maybe he just needs to do it once and then the itch will be scratched. Maybe things will go back to normal.

That's a joke, because no matter what this does for him Father will still be gone, and so will Sansa and Arya and Jon and Mother, Mother should be back by now and he tries not to worry but he does, and Bran still won't be able to walk, and Theon will still be there with his whores and he'll be a temptation until the day Robb dies. But he needs to do it once. He needs to know what it's like.

Not that he even knows what he's about to do.

He shudders through the night, snow melting in his hair, and it takes longer than it should because he has to walk – he couldn't afford to take a horse and risk one of the stable boys noticing. He burrows into his cloak but it's thin, it's the oldest and plainest one Robb owns – perhaps he could have pinched one off one of the servants, but no, he couldn't dishonour himself by stealing. _A whore perhaps, but not a thief._ It won't be enough to disguise him as lowborn, he knows that, but at least it might make him look like some minor lord from some scrap of land too far away to even be worth knowing, and not the Warden of the North himself.

Grey Wind whimpers by his side, and Robb flinches apologetically. “Sorry,” he says. “We'll be there soon.”

When he gets there, he realises he has to leave Grey Wind outside. He's too recognisable. Another apologetic flinch, and then Robb doesn't even hesitate before he heads straight through the door, he's just so _cold._

He has to wonder, how did he even know where this place is? Ros didn't tell him. Did Theon?

There's a woman there, tall, brown hair, a cunning smile. From the cut of her dress he'd say she's not for sale, but she looks a little too young to own the place. “Why hello there,” she says. “And what can I do for you this evening?”

“I–” he hesitates, and blushes red. What can she do for him? What is it he wants from this place? He should have thought this through better, not just walked through the door without a plan. Should he ask for Ros? Would she know what to do? Would that be considered rude?

She gives him a sympathetic look. “It your first time here, sweetling?” He nods, embarrassed. “No matter. Most boys are a bit shy the first time. Tell you what, how about I bring some of the girls out, and you can see if one catches your eye?”

He nods again. She smiles, and claps her hands. Sure enough, a dozen girls walk out in a line, and Robb is terrified – what if Ros isn't there? What if she's working? Will the other girls be insulted he didn't pick them? But sure enough, there she is, second to last – she looks surprised to see him, but then gives him that soft smile as she cocks her hip and pushes forth her breasts.

Robb gulps, and points. “Her.”

The – steward? Do brothels have stewards? (he still needs to appoint a replacement for Poole, he remembers) – blinks in surprise. _Well that was quicker than I expected,_ her eyes seem to say. “Ros?” she asks, and from the groan the other girls can't quite hide, he figures that's not an unusual choice. “Very good. One of our most popular girls. Of course, she is quite expensive...”

“I can pay.” He shoves a handful of coins at her without bothering to count them. She looks surprised, and for a second he's terrified again. _She'll know I'm highborn._ Of course he's highborn, everything about him gives away he's highborn from his freshly washed curls to his fine leather boots, but that doesn't mean they'll know who he is, just how high up he belongs. _I don't belong there, I belong here,_ he thinks, but then why does he feel so scared?

The woman nods, dismissing the other girls. Ros only smiles wider as she approaches him, taking his arm, and the possibly-steward disappears to count Robb's coin. 

* * *

 Ros leads him to a bedroom, fine and rich, not as fine and rich as his rooms of course, but better than he expected. She shuts the door behind her and doesn't seem to mind as he takes a couple of steps back, keeping his distance. “I didn't really expect you to come,” she says.

He blushes and looks down. _It was all a jape,_ he thinks with sudden horror. _She didn't expect me to come, she was just teasing me, but now she really does know what I want and she could tell anyone, she could tell Theon_ –

“Hey, hey, it's alright,” there's a hand on his jaw, and she is guiding his face to look her in the eye, those kind eyes of hers that might just get him killed. “I'm glad you came. I'm glad you could bring yourself to accept what you wanted.”

“I – I don't–” Gods, he'll be dead of shame before any man here can even do anything to him. “I don't even know what I want.”

“Yes, you do, Lord Stark.”

He whimpers, but her touch is still kind, just gently rubbing his cheek. “How are we–” he coughs, still struggling for words. “I mean, how should I–” _she must think I'm a fool,_ but she doesn't look like she thinks that at all. “...You're the whore, not me. So how do I get what I want?”

She smiles. _Something of Theon in her,_ but her teasing smirk is softer than Theon's. Red curls, there is something of himself in her too. And her eyes, he only just sees the iron behind her gentle glance, there is something of– “I know this place very well,” she says. “I've been here awhile. Trust me, if you tell me to, I can find a way to let you do what you want to do.” A pause. “Tell me, Lord Stark: what do you want to do?”

“I thought you knew.” He manages to smile himself then.

“I do. Tell me anyway.”

He groans. “...Whatever it is you do.”

She smirks. “I'm not sure you're ready for that, sweetling.”

He bites his lip so he won't whimper again. “Please.”

For a couple of seconds, she seems to be considering it. Then she nods. “Alright.” She lets go of his jaw, and steps away.

At first, he doesn't really understand. Then she reaches for a book on a shelf he didn't even notice. Then he doesn't understand at all. He hears a click, and she pulls a little too hard, and the shelf swings away, leaving a dark gap where it once was. _A secret passageway?_

They have them in Winterfell, of course, but what's one doing in a brothel? He doesn't really have time to consider it though, since Ros turns around and smiles and nods at him. “Come on.”

Robb follows her and as she shuts the door – well, the wall – behind them, he finds himself in a hallway, sparse and bare and seemingly leading to nothing except a set of stairs. She takes his hand. “After me.”

He keeps following her until they reach those stairs, but as she lets go of his hand to climb them he, suddenly, stops. All that shame and terror returns, and it sears until it hurts him. _I can't really be thinking about doing this, can I?_ He imagines his Lord Father, so stern and dutiful and _honourable_ , he'd have Robb sent to the Wall if he ever found out. And Mother, his poor mother, he's her firstborn, her pride and joy, she wouldn't have left if she didn't have absolute faith he could handle the responsibility. And this is how he rewards that faith?

 _But she did leave_ , some part of him says, more bitter than he thought he was. _They both did. They're not here to stop you, so why not?_

Ros has clearly noticed he's not following, because she turns around and frowns at him. “Is everything alright, Lord Stark?”

He hesitates. “No,” he says. “I really – I really shouldn't be here.”

She sighs, and comes back down the stairs, standing barely above him. “Robb, if you don't want to, that's alright,” she tells him. Then she smiles. “I mean, you're the future Lord of Winterfell. I can hardly force you into anything.”

“I _want to_ ,” he says, desperate. “But I shouldn't.”

Her hand is back on his jaw, and perhaps he leans into it slightly. He only just realises how nice that is. He hasn't been touched so gently since Mother left (or earlier, since during the weeks Bran just lay there she barely even looked at him). “You only have to do it the once,” she says. That confuses him. “Maybe you'll scratch your itch, then you can put the thought out of your head and get on with whatever it is the Warden of the North does. A dirty little secret, nothing more. All the best lords have one.”

 _Jon_ , he thinks suddenly. His own father's one dirty little secret, made flesh. He'll hardly father a bastard like this though. Mayhaps no-one will ever know. He thinks of his mother, the look on her face, the way she always looked at Jon (the reason he left). He bites his lip. _Forgive me, Mother, for what I'm about to do._ He still doesn't even know what he is about to do, but he prays for forgiveness in any case.

He looks back into Ros' kind eyes, and nods. She smiles, takes him by the hand again, and leads him upstairs. 

* * *

At the top of the stairs is another hallway, this one smaller and darker, and with three doors on each wall. He frowns, and she stops as they reach a doorway just behind the rooms. “You wait here,” she tells him, and so he does, hiding behind the arch. Ros knocks on one of the doors, smiling. “Hey Cass, how are you doing in there?”

A groan comes from inside. “Urgh. My knees are killing me. I can barely feel my tongue. And I don't even want to look at salt for a week.” Ros giggles at this Cass and her whining. “Don't laugh, I've been here for an hour! Honestly. You're lucky you're so in demand you don't have to do things like this.”

“Honestly, do you ever stop complaining?” Cass just huffs in irritation. “Oh, you poor baby. Tell you what, how about you take a break, and I'll take over for awhile?”

Something suddenly starts to click in Robb's head. _Wait, she means me to–_ Cass seems surprised too. “Wait, what, really? No. Ros, you don't have to.”

“Oh don't worry about it, I don't mind. Must have stronger knees than you,” she teases, and Robb swears he can hear Cass rolling her eyes. “Go on, I don't want to have to listen to you claiming you'll never walk again for the next three days.”

 _Bran_ , Robb thinks and he shouldn't be here, he should be at home, looking after his little brothers like he promised his mother (did he promise her that?) – but the thought flees when the door swings open, and out comes a girl, dark-haired and pudgy with breasts that could stun an elephant, and the only thing he can think is _she'll see me._ He tries to flatten himself against the wall, but that's never going to work, and it seems there's only one way out. And yet, she doesn't see him. She walks straight through the doorway, close enough to touch, and yet she just doesn't see. He still waits until she's well and truly gone before he dares look at Ros again. For what it's worth, she seems apologetic.

It takes a moment more before he's brave enough to approach her. She clicks her tongue, and though she's a good actress, he can tell she's getting impatient. He thinks he knows what she means, or he knows better than he did before, but he's not quite–

He peers through the door and its overwhelmed by the scent of sweat and seed and rotten wine (although he supposes technically all wine is rotten). It should make him sick, but instead the stirring in his gut turns into heat, makes him harden. _Seven hells, I want to._ But the space is so small and dark, more a cupboard than a room, not even a candle in there and he's not sure his body will fit let alone someone else's – is he really meant to fuck a man in there?

It still doesn't quite make sense, and he looks to Ros, awaiting explanation. “You get on your knees, m'lord,” she tells him. “There's a hole in the wall. The client sticks his cock through it, and you suck him off.”

His eyes go wide. “ _Are you insane?!_ ”

She blinks. “No. I thought this would suit you.” The disbelief is clearly written all over his face, and so she sighs and explains. “They can't see you. You won't have to worry about someone recognising the Heir of Winterfell while he's got a cock down his throat. You can't really get hurt like this, at least, not much worse than a sore jaw and stiff knees. And if you change your mind and want to stop, well, it's pretty difficult for them to force the matter when they can't even reach you.”

He flushes at the way she speaks about it, practical and logical. He knows she's making sense, and this is what he _wants_ , some man in his mouth, or wherever he can get it. “But I won't even see them,” he says, but it's not the rebuttal he wants to think it is. That thought doesn't make him want it less, it makes him hotter, harder, the thought of being such a whore for cock he doesn't even care whose it is. _It could be anyone on the other side of that wall,_ he thinks. _It could be Theon._

Ros shrugs. “Is sucking off some man you've never met before any less shameful just because you can see his face while you do it?”

He's red and shame-ridden and gods, what would Mother think, but the thought of it – kneeling in the dark smelling all the men who've come in there before, letting some other man use his throat and forget he even has the rest of his body – it's filthy, it's awful, it's exactly what he wants. _Gods, forgive me._

“They'll know I'm a boy,” he says, not quite sure of it. “They'll feel my beard.”

He should have shaved, but since Bran's fall and Father and Mother and everyone else leaving, there's just been no time (and mayhaps it makes him look a little older). Ros grins. “Maybe, but I don't think that'll be a problem. Once most men have a warm mouth wrapped around their cocks, you'd be surprised how open-minded they can be.”

Well that's that then. All his arguments fallen by the wayside, he finds himself stepping into the cupboard, letting the scent overpower him. _I was weak,_ he thinks, shame striking him once more. _I wasn't strong enough to resist. Gods, forgive me. Mother, forgive me._

He falls to his knees and looks back at Ros once more, for reassurance. Before she closes the door on him, she smiles. “I'll keep a look out,” she promises. “Now enjoy yourself Robb.”

And so he waits in the dark. 

* * *

He doesn't wait long. He cringes, eyes blinking rapidly to adjust as light comes from the hole in the wall. There's someone in there, lighting candles impatiently. _Oh gods, this is really going to happen._ For a single, desperate moment, he tries to fool himself that it's just a maid. That doesn't last. Heavy footsteps are coming straight for him, and he pants in dread and anticipation, and the man doesn't even say anything before he tears open his breeches and sticks his cock right through.

Robb tries not to gasp at the sight, but there's nothing he can do about the way his mouth waters.

It's not terribly long, shorter than he himself is, but it's _thick_ and his jaw aches just looking at it. _I can't possibly fit that in my mouth_ , he thinks, and the man's only half-hard but from his irritated grunt Robb doesn't think he'll have any patience for maidenly shyness. _He wants me to suck it. Seven hells, I want to suck it._

He reaches forward with trembling hands, stroking softly to get a feel for it. It's smoother than he expected, and of course hot, so hot. Robb leans forward and presses a gentle kiss at the tip, his own prick hardening as he feels the man stiffen at the touch of his lips. He gives it as long a lick as he dares. It tastes of salt and sweat and – wine? – and Robb can't stop himself now, he's lost.

The man grunts. “Get on with it.” Robb flushes with embarrassment, but does as he's commanded, spreading his lips to wrap them around the head.

A drop of something falls onto his tongue and he moans, softly. His jaw strains as he tries to take more and so he wraps his hand around the base, squeezing and stroking and he can feel it swelling, for _him._ “Yeah, that's right,” the man whispers as Robb forces down another inch, desperately trying to keep his teeth away, and he's barely started and already feels like he might burst.

He can hear the sounds he's making, wet and sloppy as he starts to bob his head, acting on instincts he didn't know he had. _Mayhaps I was born to this after all._ He feels the man shudder, groan, tense as Robb takes him deeper. _Am I good? Am I a natural cocksucker? Oh gods, let me be, please._

Suddenly the man _thrusts_ and Robb gags, splutters, and his cock jumps in his breeches. “Sorry,” the man mutters, and Robb thinks _Don't apologise, do it again._

He is not so shameless he can say that though, and it is probably not the whore's place to make such demands, and so instead he just swallows further, until the head of this prick teases his throat, and he make the most pathetic sounds as he fights to keep it there. The man groans, and gods, how Robb wishes the man could just grab his hair, fuck his throat until he can't breathe.

Robb finds his spare hand, the one not still wrapped around this man's cock, kneading at the front of his breeches. _I'm so hard like this. What would my mother and father think?_ The thought should make him stop, but instead it makes him fumble open his laces – he never even knew you could do that one handed, although Theon always said it was easy – and slide his hand down to wrap around his own prick. That doesn't make it any easier not to choke on the cock in his mouth.

“ _Shit_ ,” the man hisses as Robb gags around him, and he can feel spittle dripping down his chin lewdly. “Do you like it that much, you fucking slut?”

Robb moans and nods eagerly as the man bucks into him once again, restraint slipping. _Does he know what I'm doing?_ he thinks as he strokes himself, wet as a girl. He doesn't seem to mind if he does. _I probably should have asked permission. That's what a good whore would do._ But it's a bit late for that now, and so he keeps going, moaning in pleasure as he sucks this man off. _Nothing but a hole for his cock._

It could be anyone on the other side of that wall. It could be Theon. He gasps and starts bobbing his head and rubbing himself faster. Theon's thick, Ros told him as much, and the thinks he saw as much in the Godswood, innocently naked in the hot pools. He can't see properly, but he thinks the soft hair just starting to tease his nose is dark. _But Theon's longer_ , he remembers.

He groans, and isn't sure if it's a disappointment. What does he really want? Theon's prick, the man he's been thinking about and fantasising about for weeks (or months, or years) now? Or just _a_ prick, anyone's at all; does the thought he doesn't even know this man make it better?

 _Mayhaps I'll see him again_ , he thinks as he gags once more. _Mayhaps he's a peasant or a soldier or a merchant, mayhaps he'll come to the Lord of Winterfell for something, mayhaps he'll look at me and neither of us will ever know how he stuffed my mouth with his cock_ –

He whimpers, shuddering, wetness is dripping from him and – he's about to come, oh gods. What should he do? Should he let himself? Is that allowed, would the man _like_ that? He can't possibly stop though, and so he pulls back, keeping just the tip in his mouth so he really won't choke, squeezing his hand around the base in apology. It only takes a couple more strokes until Robb cries out, biting his lip so as not to be too blatant about it, but there's no hiding the way pleasure seems to grab his spine and squeeze it until he might snap. _Touching myself was never like this before_.

“Fuck,” the man grunts as he thrusts back down, and Robb's still in a haze but he manages to take it. “A proper cocksucker. Fuck.”

 _Yes. Yes, that's what I am._ He man is really fucking his mouth now, Robb just has to bob his head and try to keep up, but he doesn't mind, even as he gags and chokes. _That's what I'm here for._

“Gonna come,” the man mutters, shivering against Robb's lips. “You might wanna pull back.”

 _But do I? Want to?_ However some part of him is apparently still capable of rational thought, and he realises it's not worth the risk of choking to death on come in a brothel. _What would my mother think?_ And so he pulls back, stroking the shaft as well as he can manage, lips and tongue still slaving over the head. _Go on, come,_ he thinks. _Make me taste it, make me feel it, make me swallow it_ –

And yet when it happens it still takes him by surprise, and he jumps back with his mouth still wet and open. “Fuck,” the man grunts as Robb squeezes him tighter, and he still feels it shooting into his mouth, but then he moves ever so slightly – and it's on his chin, on his cheeks, in his hair, and Robb moans at the thought it's getting all over him. He strokes it harder to wring out the last of it. _Yes, yes, come all over me._

It's like he's been marked, like he's been labeled. Right now, anyone could look at him and know exactly where he belongs – not on some Lord's chair, but on his knees with a man in his mouth. _This is what you're good for. Sucking cock and getting yourself soaked with seed._ It's Theon's voice that says it in his head.

The man finishes with a groan and Robb's hands still shake as he lets go. He has to rest his brow against the wall in exhaustion, trying to catch his breath. He should think better now, he should be flooded with guilt and shame and remorse, but his head is still too light to feel anything so heavy. Instead he feels a sort of bliss he's never known before, different from the desperate ecstasy of orgasm. _I could just stay here,_ he thinks, even though it's not true and images of Bran and Rickon and his mother rush past (but they do not make him crumble into self-loathing, not this time). _On my knees for whoever wants me. Should not the Lord of Winterfell serve his people?_

He's snapped out of his reverie by the sound of metal hitting the floor. “There you go,” says the man, and Robb frowns at the two coppers glinting in the low light. “Oh, what the hell.” A third one follows them. “It's been awhile since I've had such an enthusiastic cocksucking. That Cass usually complains her way right through it.”

Robb blushes as the man puts out out the candles and leaves. _Now I really am a whore,_ he thinks, shame starting to break through that bliss. _A cheap one, too._ The thought is making him hard again, he realises.

After a minute or so, there's a knock from behind him. “Robb? Are you alright in there?”

 _Ros_. He forgot about her. He tries nodding, but that's not going to be terribly helpful. “Yeah,” he whispers, and is shocked by the hoarse, fucked-out sound of his own voice.

A pause, and the door swings open, flooding the little cupboard with light and making him cringe. The hallway's dim though, so it doesn't take long to adjust. Ros just looks at him, and he realises he still hasn't wiped the come off his face. She grins. “Oh, aren't you a sight for sore eyes.”

He blushes, but can't help but be complimented. “I'll take it you did better than my first time, then?” she asks. “Gagged so much I threw up all over his cock. Wound up having to pay _him_ for the inconvenience.”

“That hardly seems fair,” Robb frowns.

Ros shrugs. “Miracle the lady didn't throw me out, really.” She sighs and kneels down next to Robb, eyeing him carefully. “Are you alright?”

He shouldn't be, he should feel awful and used and ashamed of himself and – maybe he feels all those things, but not in a bad way. “Yes,” he says.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

He can't answer that in words, so instead he just groans and nods, too quickly.

She grins. “Good. Glad to be of service, m'lord.”

He blushes, but chuckles. “Can I–” she tilts her head curiously, and he cuts himself off. _What would my mother think?_ But Ros is still looking at him with her kind eyes, those eyes that don't think any less of him even when he's on his knees and soaked with come.

“...Could I do it again?”

“Hmm? Oh, of course. Just give me word and I'll bring you back here as soon as you like.” That's not quite what he meant. “And well, there should be another customer along in five minutes.”


	3. white noise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb was always a good child, who listened to his mother's warnings that scratching an itch would only make it worse. But he was never such a smart child that knowing that ever stopped him from scratching an itch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, bit of a short, transitional chapter this time, but oh well.

He stays longer than he means to. It's the early morning before he finds himself trudging back through the snow, Grey Wind still whimpering at the cold – the creature's a wolf, he should be used to it – legs shaking, knees bruised and jaw aching. His cock too. He came three times sucking six men in the night, and he knows it was too much, that he completely disgraced himself, but he cannot be worried about it right now. He wonders what that friend of Ros' – Cathryn? Something like that? – must have thought, if she wondered why she never had to go back on shift, but he can't worry about that either. Robb's still not thinking straight, his thoughts sway and are swept away like leaves in the breeze, and something warm has settled deep inside his body. He hasn't felt this calm in months. He got what he wanted, he supposes, and a taste in his mouth and a pocket full of coins to prove it. And he was good at it, they said. All his men told him how good he was, such an enthusiastic little cocksucker. It felt so nice to hear that. Like he was doing what he was meant to.

There should be guards waiting at Winterfell for him, he should have to blush his way through excuses, and yet he sneaks back into the castle without seeing a soul. For a second he rests against the wall, feeling the heat from below. Gods, he's exhausted. He should go to bed. _I should check on my brothers first._

Something about the thought bothers him, but he's right, he should. He treks his way over to Bran's room, then stops outside and sighs, quickly checking he's cleaned all the seed from his face. He really doesn't want Bran to see. He looks over to Grey Wind before he goes in, and sees him with his head bent, set on the ground, refusing to enter.

Robb frowns. What's that about? He supposes it doesn't matter, he just wants to check on Bran quickly, he doesn't want to wake him. He swings open the door and sees little Bran, perfectly asleep, calm and still and peaceful.

It's like a bubble bursting, or perhaps being crashed over by an ocean wave. Seven hells, what has he _done_? He is the Lord of Winterfell, at least while Father is away, he's meant to be watching over this place and everyone in it and he was – he was–

What if something had happened? What if the Lannisters took their chance and sent another assassin? What would he tell his mother, his father, his brothers and sisters, anyone if Bran died because Robb was too busy having his throat fucked by peasants to protect him?

He digs his nails into his palms so as not to panic. Then he'll just wake Bran and scare him, he doesn't want that. It'll never happen again, he vows. It was just the once, a fit of madness and adolescent sexuality. It was Theon's fault, him and all his teasing stories, and Ros' too, her and her kind eyes. A dirty little secret, everyone has one, even Father, even if he couldn't keep his under wraps. But Robb won't have a bastard, he'll be fine, no-one will ever know, his brothers won't ever know – he'd rather die than let that happen. _I'm sorry,_ he wants to say. Poor Bran still looks so young and sweet and innocent. _You deserve better._

He turns on his heel and leaves. He can't bring himself to look at Rickon now, wild and blunt and even younger. He's easier to wake than Bran, and if he woke he'd ask Robb what he was doing there without a second thought, and Robb isn't sure he could bring himself to lie right now.

Grey Wind follows him back to his room and Robb crawls into bed without even bothering to change into his nightclothes. It's not like he won't be uncomfortable the whole day tomorrow anyway. He hides under the furs like a child, like he can take it back, like he'll wake up in the morning and it will have been a dream – the sort of thing he'll think of and blush as Theon tries to tease the details out of him. The coins are still in his pocket, he realises. It doesn't matter if he never does it again, because he'll always be what he is now and he'll never be anything more – a whore. The thought makes shame burn deep inside him. The thought makes him hard again.

He looks up and sees Grey Wind settled in front of the hearth, still whimpering, but not at the cold – of course, it was never at the cold, but something else, some other unfulfilled need. _A bitch in heat._

Robb was always a good child, who listened to his mother's warnings that scratching an itch would only make it worse. But he was never such a smart child that knowing that ever stopped him from scratching an itch. 

* * *

Robb tries not to, he really does. Admittedly he doesn't hold out particularly long, about a week. It's a stupid thing that leads him back, and it only happens because he gets word that Lord Glover will be expecting their hospitality for a night. That's happened hundreds of times with hundreds of different lords during Robb's life, and Father never made much of a fuss beyond making sure they had enough rooms set up. And yet, Robb can't help but worry. The castle did fall into disarray a little while Bran was in his sleep, and he doesn't want Lord Glover to see things a mess and think the young Lord Stark isn't up to the responsibility. The maids seem annoyed, but they don't question him.

Theon does though, in his own Theon way, as Robb barks orders, so unlike himself. “You know, this place is only just starting to look lived in again after the King's visit. I'm sure Lord Glover wouldn't mind if there was one single speck of dust left.”

Robb looks down, shamefaced. Theon's right, he's being ridiculous. “Sorry,” he says, and really he should say that to the servants who he's making do all the actual work. “I just – I want to get this right. It's the first time any of my lord father's bannermen have seen me since – since.” He doesn't want to go through it all, Father and his sisters, and Bran, and Mother, and Jon. Theon nods like he understands, and Robb could kiss him for it. “You think I'm an idiot, don't you?”

“Well yeah, but I've always thought that.”

Robb laughs, even as guilt prickles at the back of neck. _If only you knew how stupid I could be._ “I'll need you to be on your best behaviour tonight. No going through his serving girls.”

“Would I do that?”

“I'm not dignifying that with an answer.”

Theon laughs. “Fine. I'll stick to our own serving girls.” Robb glares at him, and Theon rolls his eyes. “Kidding. I mean I've made my way through most of them anyway, there's no thrill in it anymore – shit, Rickon!”

Robb doesn't register it for a second, he just knows Theon has suddenly disappeared from sight. When he turns around, he sees little Rickon perched at the top of a ladder a maid was dusting from just a second ago, grinning and rocking from side to side. And Robb just freezes with fear. _No. Gods, no. Not like Bran. What would I tell Mother?_

He doesn't even have the chance to move before Theon is picking Rickon off the steps, and Rickon wails, whacking his chest with little fists in protest. “Ow! Fuck you too, kid.” Robb can't possibly admonish Theon for cursing at his little brother, not now. Theon walks back over to him, bawling babe still in his arms.

“Honestly, if you lot want me to play wetnurse, you could at least pay me. Or get some other part of me sucked on as well,” Theon grins, and Robb's hands shake as little Rickon is passed to him.

“I'll – send him back to his rooms.” Rickon protests, and Robb hears only his lordling voice, the one he uses so no-one can hear what he really thinks. His heart races and his thoughts are so full of fear and guilt and gratitude – _Rickon almost fell, just like Bran, I couldn't even move but Theon was there, he's always been there, he hasn't left –_ that he just wants to fall to his knees right there in front of all the servants and even little Rickon himself and give Theon exactly what he just asked for. _Do anything you want to me, Theon. You deserve it. So do I._

Theon just shrugs as Robb walks off, and Robb doesn't look him in the eye, not wanting to see what he'll find there (not sure he'd be able to resist it). Rickon whines all the way to his chambers, and Robb wishes he weren't so relieved when he hands him over to Old Nan, but he can't help himself.

On his way back, he stops and pokes his head through the door to see Bran. He sees him reading with the resentful look of a boy who always _liked_ reading, but has now had it ruined by the fact he can't do anything else.

Robb sighs and heads back downstairs. He just needs this visit to go well. That's all he needs. 

* * *

The visit does go well, and Lord Glover seems very impressed with the Acting Lord Stark and how he keeps his household. He says he would have understood if things were a little chaotic, considering _,_ but Robb is clearly doing a fantastic job. His father will be proud. Theon gives Robb a little smile, like _what were you so worried about again?_ , and Robb blushes.

Lord Glover takes dinner with them, him and Theon and the two boys, and true to his word Theon is very well-behaved. Robb catches his eyes running over a serving girl's breasts once or twice, but there are no bawdy japes, no furtive gropes, not even a misplaced _sweetling._ It's hard not to squirm at the thought of Theon's eyes running over him like that, and mayhaps not just his eyes, but he doesn't think Lord Glover notices. He does give Theon a couple of odd looks throughout the dinner, and Robb doesn't understand it until he realises, with a blush, that Theon is sitting in his lady mother's chair. He didn't even think of that. The thought makes him a little sick.

Still, he wishes Lord Glover a good evening and sends him and his retinue off to the guest rooms. He says goodnight to Theon before Theon goes off to do whatever Theon does at night. He kisses Bran and Rickon on the forehead, tells them bedtime stories before he tucks them between the sheets. Then he makes his way to his own rooms, curls up under the furs and tries to sleep.

A couple of hours later in the dead of the night, he gets up, sneaks out and goes to pay Ros to get his throat fucked so hard he doesn't remember his own name. 

* * *

Ros still visits the castle every so often, servicing Theon like nothing has changed. That's probably another reason Robb keeps going back, because it's just so _easy_ , once Theon's done with her and asleep in his bed and she knocks on his door, smiling and knowing and kind. It seems like the easiest thing in the world to follow her back to the brothel and serve so many men he loses count. The shame comes later and later now, and yet it always hits when he wakes up in the dawn light.

Every time she's there he's terrified she'll tell Theon everything. And maybe part of him wants her to, because maybe Theon will be enraged, maybe he'll burst into Robb's rooms and pin him down and tell him it's only fair if he gets some of what every other man in the North has been getting– but Ros wouldn't, he knows that. She's onto a good thing with him, getting a lot of coin for very little work, for just letting him work. And besides, her eyes are so kind.

One night Robb listens to them fuck, and as he tosses and turns he feels a strange lump on his pillow. He moves in and discovers an object, long and thin and made of smooth black leather, and stuffed with sawdust, he thinks. Next to it is a small pot of oil, and a note, just two words: _Enjoy yourself._ Even to him it's obvious what it is, and he turns red and wants to throw it out his window. He doesn't. Instead he spends the whole night with it buried inside him, biting his pillow to smother his moans. Then he buries it in his wardrobe and tries to forget it exists. He fails, and the next night he fishes it out and fucks himself on it until he can barely keep from screaming.

He means to ask Ros where a common prostitute learned to read and write so well, but he never gets around to it.

Another night he listens to them fuck, moaning in pleasure as he makes use of her little gift. He knows he shouldn't, this feels like a violation somehow, but he's not been able to stop himself doing things he shouldn't for weeks now.

Mayhaps, mayhaps Ros knows him too well, mayhaps she knew he'd do this, because she moans too loudly and somehow he knows it's for his benefit. “Oh, go on Theon, you can go a little faster,” she groans and he can hear Theon curse. “Honestly, sometimes I think you're getting bored of me.”

“Well, maybe I wouldn't get bored of you if you shut up every once in awhile.”

Ros laughs through her moans. “No, I don't think that's it.” Robb's breath hitches as he strokes himself, needy and guilty. “I think – _oh_ – you need to get your cock sucked more. You don't like me doing it, because you like the way I talk too much.”

“I think – _fuck_ – you think too much of yourself.”

“I think exactly enough of myself,” she says, breath high and keening. “But I could – oh fuck – show you a proper little cocksucker, someone new at the brothel. Doesn't like talking, doesn't want to be seen, doesn't even want to be touched, just wants to suck off any man who comes in.”

 _Seven hells._ Robb freezes in terror, but his cock jerks so hard he thinks he might come there and then. _What is she playing at?_

“What – oh gods – exactly – _oh_ – is so special about _this_ fucking whore, unlike all the others?”

Ros giggles through her moans. “This one's not doing it for the money, m'lord,” she says. “Doesn't need to. Real highborn, as highborn as you. Just likes it so much. Feels so ashamed, but just can't stop, would fuck every man in Winterfell, I swear.”

Theon moans and finally finishes, muffling the noise against Ros' skin. Robb hears her gasp in delight.

“...Maybe I should meet this friend of yours then.”

Ros laughs. “I thought you'd say that.”

Robb whimpers, and spills in his hand.


	4. candlelight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this and the next chapter were originally meant to be one and the same, but then this got a lot longer than I expected and I'm pretty sure combining the two scenes would end up like 10,000 words, so I decided I might as well post this. Also, wow, I am writing this way quicker than I expected. ~~It's because I don't want to do uni work isn't it.~~

Mayhaps it was inevitable. Mayhaps it was what he wanted all along, Theon's cock down his throat without ever having to face the consequences of it. Mayhaps Ros knew that, and that was her plan, to get him so used to sucking off anyone who asked that Theon would be just one more. But still, now the idea might just become a reality, it terrifies him. He doesn't know why: he must have sucked on half of Winter Town by now, what's so special about Theon? It's not like he'll ever know it was Robb, or so he hopes (or perhaps he doesn't).

The thought terrifies him, but it excites him too. That night he overhears them he doesn't go to the brothel, but he does stay awake for hours, fucking himself on Ros' toy. The next morning Bran frowns as Robb goes bleary-eyed over a letter from the Reach, and asks if he didn't sleep well last night. Robb blushes and says _yes_ , praying Bran won't ask for more information, which he doesn't, he just sighs and starts talking wistfully about his dreams. Everything is so very strange right now.

Theon clearly hasn't made the connection, and Robb realises he has no reason to be paranoid (or hopeful) that he will. Theon is still just there, popping up over his shoulder, laughing over how Margaery Tyrell is going to marry the King's brother, apparently (Robb does not read that anywhere in the letter, but Theon says you have to read between the lines, and Robb worries that he can't do that just yet). “Good luck to her,” Theon says. “If any girl can charm that sword-swallower...”

Robb frowns through his blush. Is that what he is, a sword-swallower? Maybe it's a stupid question, given how many swords he's swallowed. But it's not that simple, at least, he doesn't think it is. He's always liked girls, even if he was too honourable to do much of anything about it. He still feels a tingle in his groin when he thinks of a beautiful woman, slowly letting down her dress, showing him her firm tight breasts, her soft peachy skin, her pretty pink cunt. And yet, he doesn't feel that tingle when he thinks about fucking her.

When he thinks about men, he doesn't think about their bodies. Not even Theon's, and he's _seen_ Theon's body, and he knows it is, objectively, perfect. But in his dreams the men don't take their clothes off – no, it's Robb who does that, exposing himself utterly while the men barely open their breeches enough to get their pricks out. That's the bit of a man's body he wants, a fierce hard cock in his mouth, in his arse, wherever they want to put it. Sometimes in his dreams the men are as ugly as possible, fat and old with broken teeth and withered jaws and shocking noses, and he moans all the louder while such hideous men fuck him. It doesn't matter what they look like, after all. He'd let anyone do it. He's just a whore.

It's women he wants to look at, but men he wants to fuck. Now that's strange.

Or perhaps he's just making excuses, trying to make himself seem less of a deviant than he knows he is. It doesn't really matter when he's on his knees sucking the cock of some man who could look like anything behind the wall. But Theon, he knows what Theon looks like. He knows everything about Theon, and he always thought Theon knew everything about him, except clearly Theon doesn't know just how badly Robb wants to suck him off.

* * *

He still has no idea what Ros' plan is, but he shouldn't doubt her. She leaves him a note telling him to leave early next Friday night, just after supper, to come up with some excuse. Robb is sure Theon will make the connection, but he doesn't, just nods and promises to keep an eye on the little ones while Robb has to visit the Dreadfort for something. The Dreadfort is close by, you can make it there and back again in an evening if you ride hard. And everyone is too scared of the Boltons to go ask them if the Lord of Winterfell ever truly visited.

Things go as normal at first, Ros sneaks him to his regular spot, even though it's quieter this early than it usually is. Just before she leaves him to get to work, she grins and kisses his brow. “I'll be back, I promise.”

An hour later, she is, but on the other side of the wall. Robb has only sucked off two men tonight, and he's hard and nervous when he hears voices he recognises. “Not been up here before,” says Theon, and oh gods, it really will happen, Robb's stomach almost flips. “Usually I like to see my girls.”

“Yes well, this will be a new experience then,” Ros says, a distinct note of annoyance in her honeyed voice. Robb can't fight a smile. They must have been bickering awhile.

Theon hums. “You know, I could probably just order the girl to show herself. Say if she wants my cock that badly, she'll have to be brave enough to admit it. What do you think she'd do?”

Robb freezes. Gods, no, he's not ready for that, not yet. Ros thinks this over, and he just hopes she can fix it. “I have no idea, m'lord. However, it's probably not worth the risk. The customers all seem perfectly happy to have their cock sucked through a wall, long as it's done well, and remember – as highborn as you. Could make things difficult for you if see that face tonight, and have to see it again later.”

Theon sighs, but he seems to have been defeated. Robb really does not pay Ros enough. “Alright then. Oi, you.” He knocks on the wall by Robb's head. Robb can just _see_ his grin, and gods, Robb is so hard. “Open up. It's your lucky day.”

Robb fights the urge to groan as he watches Theon unlace his breeches through the hole in the wall, and the urge to laugh when he hears Theon whisper to Ros, “There is someone on the other side of this, right?” Theon might recognise his voice. Ros laughs for him, doesn't answer, and Robb will give her a holdfast of her own for this, he swears by the Old Gods and the New.

He can _see_ Theon's cock, naked and half-hard, for _him_ , and yet it's not close enough, not yet. Theon is looking somewhere else. “What, are you just going to stand there?”

“I told you, this one's a little shy,” Ros says, and despite himself Robb blushes. “Don't want you leaving a crying mess on the other side that _I'll_ have to take care of.”

Theon snorts. “Sure. You're a pervert, Ros.”

“Well, it sort of comes with the job.”

Another chuckle and then finally, Theon sticks his cock through. Robb gasps. He's seen it before, and he remembered it was big, but he never knew it was that big. It's not even really hard yet, and Robb can't help himself. He swallows it whole, until he gags, not bothering with the gentle licks and kisses he usually starts with. Perhaps that's best. Theon might feel his beard, and that could be a problem (he really should shave).

“Fuck – fuck – _fuck_!” Theon shouts, struggling for breath, and Robb knows he's got him. “Gods, you weren't kidding about how eager she was, were you?”

Ros laughs. “Usually it starts a little slower. But you are quite impressive, Lord Greyjoy.” Theon groans as he thrusts into Robb's mouth, and Robb thinks _yes yes yes_.

“I wasn't – _complaining_ – drowned fuck!” Theon is vocal, which Robb knew but it's different when it's _him_ making Theon scream like that. Every noise goes right to his cock, and he can't even be bothered to undo his laces, he just fists himself through the wool. Gods, Robb needs to slow down or else it'll be over too soon, and so he pulls back a little and makes it up to Theon by swirling his tongue over the slit. Theon's already wet, and Robb still only half knows what he's doing, but Theon seems to like it as much as every other man he's done it to. “Oh yeah, just like that,” he moans, gyrating against the wall – Robb chuckles around his cock when he thinks of what Theon must look like right now, and that only makes him moan louder. “Such a good fucking whore. I'll see you again after this, swear I will. Give you my cock wherever you want it, have that precious little cunt, and your cute little arse too. You'll feel so good, you little slut, I swear it by every god I've ever even fucking heard of.”

“What, are you going to take this sweet little one's maidenhead?” Ros asks.

Theon laughs. “She doesn't suck cock like a maiden.”

“I wouldn't go telling the head of the House that, though.” Robb doesn't even _have_ a maidenhead, his lessons taught him that much, and if he did Ros' little gift would have broken it by now. But the thought of Theon claiming his arse, gods. He half wants to pull off and press his arse against the hole for it, but he doesn't want to risk the humiliation if it didn't work. He might hurt himself also, and he does not want to have to explain this to Maester Luwin. Ros hums a little to herself. “Tell me, Theon: which head of the House do you think that is?”

“Huh?” Theon is a little distracted by Robb's mouth around his cock, after all.

“Which fine, upstanding Lord birthed such a desperate little whore?”

Theon groans as Robb swallows him right to the back of his throat (words have too much affect on him, he knows that). “No idea. If she got her skills from her mother, then a lucky fucking man,” he says, gasping. Robb flinches. Mayhaps he's naïve, but he can't see his mother doing this for anyone, not even Father. _Oh Mother. What would you think of me?_ “Does it matter?”

“Maybe not.” Robb can hear the sound of his own fist stroking his cock, and maybe Theon would too if he weren't so loud, and if Ros wasn't keeping him distracted. “Still: who would you like it to be?”

“What's it to you?”

“Just curious.” Robb doesn't believe that any more than Theon does, but he doesn't know what game she's playing either, and it worries him, so he distracts himself by sucking the head of Theon's cock into one of his cheeks, making it bulge out obscenely, even if no-one can see. He wants to touch Theon's balls, feel how full they are, how ready to spill into his mouth, but he won't be able to reach. For the first time, he wishes the wall wasn't there. He wishes Theon could touch him, that he could pull on his hair, that he could slap him around and spit in his face. He wishes Theon could look down and know exactly which lord had birthed the whore gagging around his cock.

“Would you like it if it was a Stark girl?”

Robb almost jumps out of his skin. _Ros, what in the seven hells are you doing?!_ He should stop, the thought of his sisters should make it impossible to keep going – _wild Arya, utterly uncontrollable, even if she was old enough she could never imagine anyone liking being on their knees like this_ and _sweet Sansa, the perfect lady, she thinks I'm the knight to her princess; gods, what would_ she _think of me?_ – but he knows he can't, it would be too suspicious. Who else left in the North has so much reason to care about the Stark girls? So Robb just swallows Theon deeper, even as he whimpers in distress (although he knows it's not all distress).

To be fair, Theon sounds distressed too. “They haven't even fucking bled yet!”

“I didn't mean one of the actual Stark girls,” Ros just chuckles to herself. “But if Lord Stark had another daughter, an older one. If Robb had been born a girl. Would you like that?”

Robb just prays his hitched breath sounds more like arousal than terror (and mayhaps it is). _Oh gods, he'll figure it out, oh gods._ What would happen next? Would they just never speak again (no, Robb needs Theon, he's the only one left). Or maybe, maybe Theon wouldn't mind, maybe he'd be a little disappointed about that precious cunt, but the other half, oh–

“Ros...” Theon groans, warning.

She giggles. “You would, wouldn't you? You'd like to make one of Ned Stark's brood squirm with pleasure sucking on your prick. You can't hide a thing from me, Theon.”

“Fuck!” Theon bucks into Robb's mouth and Robb gags, helpless but it's so good, _that's right Theon, fuck my throat, that's what I'm here for you can do anything you like with me, you'd like it if you knew who I was I'd like it too, I'd like my father's hostage making his son a whore, he's not here to stop me, harder gods harder please–_

“Gods, why are you even friends with this one?” Theon laughs, and it takes Robb a moment to realise he's talking to him. “Here you are giving me better head than she ever has, and she can't shut up about the bloody Starks.”

Robb just moans as he bobs his head up and down, and he thinks Theon might be about to come, oh gods he might be about to have Theon's come in his mouth, would it be saltier than usual, he wonders? He might be losing his mind like this, rocking into his own hands with a cock down his throat. Maybe he lost his mind long ago. It would explain some things.

“Can't make you think well of yourself, this one trying to make me think about another woman while you're sucking me off, one who doesn't even exist.” Robb fights the urge to laugh at Theon's sudden streak of chivalry. “Is that why you hide behind this wall, has she bullied you into thinking you're not pretty? Well fuck her. I bet you're the prettiest little whore the world ever saw. I bet you look fucking amazing sucking on my cock. I bet you've got cheekbones the Tullys would kill for, and a pout even Jon fucking Snow couldn't match. I bet you have the cutest little dimples when you smile, and you blush like you're made out of porcelain. You'd look so good when I fucked you, as good as you'd feel.”

Robb moans, even if Theon's only saying it to spite Ros. _Yes, the perfect little lordling, all the girls want to marry me, and here I am sucking you off for a handful of coppers._ Then, as he pulls back, Theon suddenly pulls away, and Robb almost falls to the ground, gasping. _What?_

“Well if I can't see your pretty face, then I want to feel it.” Ros makes a small noise, like this was not part of her plan, and Robb just freezes as Theon presses his cock up against his cheek. Oh god, the heat of it on his skin is so good, but his beard bristles underneath and he knows Theon can feel that, Theon suddenly stops and fuck, just _fuck_.

“Wait,” says Theon. “She's not–”

“A girl? No. Never said she was,” Ros says with an affected casualness, while Theon splutters helplessly. But his prick hasn't wilted at all. “Does it matter? Still the best cocksucker who works here. And from what I've heard, you Ironborn aren't meant to be too fussy about where you stick it, as long as you're the ones doing the sticking. So go on, enjoy yourself. I don't think he'll say anything about it.”

Theon twitches slightly, and Robb can still feel the heat of him, but he's hesitating. Robb doesn't know _what's_ going through own his head right now, he doesn't know how he finds the courage, but all he can think is that of all the reasons this should not be happening, what's between Robb's legs is possibly the stupidest reason to stop. And so he takes a deep breath, wraps his hand around Theon, and starts to suck.

He does it slowly now, softly, just on the head. He's asking for permission. If Theon could see him, Robb would look up with big, pleading eyes, the eyes he used to use when he was five and begging Theon to sneak him another slice of pudding. Theon groans, and can't help but keen towards him. Robb really doesn't know when he got so good at this. “Fuck,” Theon mutters. “I guess sword-swallowers do know what feels good.”

Robb just groans as he takes Theon in deeper. He has no idea what it's like on the other side, no-one has ever done this for him, but that's not really the point. He likes it too much like this, he'd be anything anyone wanted so long as he can stay here, serving on his knees. He's good at this, and he likes it, and Theon clearly likes it too, so why not do it forever?

(Because little Bran and Rickon, they need him, and Mother is coming back and he'll have to be able to look her in the eye, and he will see all the rest of them again they're not gone forever, and Robb will feel so ashamed of himself in a few hours, he always does, but right now he can feel good, he can feel better here than he can anywhere else.)

Theon thrusts harder, faster, getting wild as he drives towards the edge. _He gets a little rough, sometimes._ Oh gods, Robb likes it so much, Theon's cock choking him, he's drooling again, he can barely keep up and as wetness drips from Theon's cock down his throat he gags, then he shivers, and then he _comes_ , mewling in pleasure and barely touching himself, thrusting into the air as he soaks his breeches. _Gods, Theon, if you could see what you do to me._

Theon can _hear_ what he's done to him, at least. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mutters, hurried and rushed, smacking the wall – _do that to me Theon, please_ – and then he shoots down Robb's throat, doesn't even warn him, lets him choke some more as he struggles to swallow it. But he wants the taste of Theon inside him. He knows it tastes just like all the others, not any saltier than usual, but it's _Theon_ and gods, how Robb wants it.

Robb groans as Theon pumps away inside his mouth, until every drop has spilled. _He'll bruise my lips,_ Robb thinks with a thrill. When Theon finally pulls out with a shaky breath, Robb can't let him go just yet, and so he presses a kiss to the head of his cock, long and loving. _Thank you, Theon. You do so much for me. You'll never know how much._

It's awkward as Theon puts himself away, and Robb tries (and mostly fails) to get his breath back. Ros is still there, he realises, but she's not said anything in awhile. Theon finishes lacing himself back up, stops, and sighs. “He's just some boy whore, isn't he?”

“Hmm?” says Ros.

Theon chuckles. “You paid him to pull a trick on me. Or maybe, maybe he thought it would be funny enough he did it for free. I've had my share of highborns, even the filthy ones, none of them knew how to suck cock like that. That was just some ruse so I wouldn't wonder why the hell he was behind a wall, wasn't it?”

Ros hesitates, and Robb thinks she might not know what to say. He doesn't think she'd give him up, unless, mayhaps, he _wants_ her to give him up. “I mean, you could certainly come to that conclusion,” she says, teasing smirk back in her voice, having taken the path of least resistance. “I am a pretty good liar.”

 _Oh Ros. I don't pay you enough._ “That you are, sweetling,” says Theon. “For a second there I almost thought–”

Robb's heart skips a beat.

“...Almost thought what?” asks Ros.

“Nothing. It's stupid,” Theon says, and Robb can't help but think he sounds disappointed. “Anyway, one way or another, still gotta pay, right? Here you go.”

Theon throws a silver through the hole in the wall, and Robb just stares at it. Theon chuckles.

“Tell you what though, worth every penny.”

And then he leaves, Ros by his side, and Robb is left there to pocket his coin. He feels strange. It's not the bliss he usually feels right after, nor the shame that strikes him down in the middle of the night. It's both of those, and neither. More than anything, it's disappointment. He doesn't feel like he got what he wanted. He feels like he almost got what he wanted.

A few minutes later, Ros shows up again on his side of the wall. “So, how was that?”

Robb hesitates, trying to put his thoughts into words. “Do you think he figured it out?”

“Maybe,” says Ros. “If he would want to know, probably. If he wouldn't, probably not. See, I'm clever like that,” she says. “If he wants you, Robb, he'll probably take you. If he doesn't... well, you had him the once anyway.”

“It felt good,” he mumurs, taste of Theon still on his tongue. “Having him like that. Like I belonged there, on my knees for him.”

“You always say that, Robb.”

He laughs again. So he does. “But it doesn't feel quite right, not now. I feel like I'll never have him again, and if I don't, I might die.”

Ros frowns. “You wanted him to know it was you, didn't you?”

Robb closes his eyes and groans. “Gods, yes.” How easy that would make it, Theon would know Robb was nothing but his whore and fuck him every single night. Every day as well. They wouldn't do anything else, and Winterfell would just fade into the dark as they fucked themselves into oblivion.

“Maybe he did.”

“Maybe.” But Robb shouldn't want him to, because he can't let Winterfell just fade into nothing even if sometimes he just wants to burn the whole thing down, but it's his home and it's his family's home and it's his father's land, it's his father's legacy, and it's _his_ even if Robb never asked for it.


	5. daybreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You're just a boy. A boy with all of Winterfell to look after,” Theon says. “Sure, your family won't approve, but are they here right now? No. They all fucking left you, and half the country in your hands. So frankly, they don't have the right to be angry about anything you do that keeps you going long enough to not just let the place burn.”
> 
>  _I've gone mad. This isn't happening. It can't be that easy, can it?_ Theon doesn't hate him for it, doesn't judge him for it, he understands. Right now, Robb wants to kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this didn't end up quite as long as I feared, but I still feel like I made the right decision separating the two chapters. Also, this is one of those chapters where I have a whole paranoid "but IS MY SUBTEXT GETTING THROUGH?" thing, so be aware of that. ~~Basically, this is the chapter where one of my tags is starting to become important...~~
> 
> This is also the chapter where I first encounter the problem of: "so if I describe a pairing very briefly and it doesn't actually happen, do I have to bother tagging it?" This will be a much bigger problem next chapter.

Seemingly, Theon hasn't figured it out. Nothing changes once he gets back home and the shame strikes him at daybreak, like clockwork. He shouldn't have. He shouldn't have gone along with Ros' stupid scheme, he can barely look Theon in the eye anymore – he felt so good, deep in Robb's throat, and Robb should just try to forget it since it'll never happen again (although that's what he told himself the first time he came back from the brothel) – but he can't, whenever Theon grins and teases he thinks about what he got from him that one time, and all the things he couldn't get from him, that he probably never will.

If there's one thing that makes him worry that Theon might know after all, it's this: Theon hasn't told him about it. Usually, Theon tells him all his dirty stories, even the embarrassing ones – although Robb doubts he recounts them very accurately. He expected Theon to come to him with the story Ros told him, the one he thinks is a lie, of the highborn lady who loves sucking cock and being paid for it. But he's not said a word, and so as far as Robb officially knows, Theon was still here looking after Bran and Rickon that night. He cringes to think of it. It wasn't enough he abandoned his little brothers, he made sure Theon did too, and yes Robb knows they have a castle full of servants and if something happened, they could handle it as well as either he or Theon could (they're just a couple of teenage boys), but that's not the point. They should have been there. Mayhaps he should be as angry with Theon over that as he is with himself, but he can't bring himself to be. Theon only did what he wanted.

Sometimes he thinks the whole castle knows. He hasn't been terribly subtle, sneaking out in the middle of the night, and he knows he's been acting suspiciously – but he was acting like that before, snapping at the servants, not sleeping through the night, drinking more than he used to. They probably just think the stress is getting to him. And, well, they're not wrong.

Theon takes him riding again. It's been awhile since they've done that, Robb finding the peace he once found in those forests better and deeper (and dirtier and more shameful) somewhere else. But Theon just grins at him and tells him he has to keep his body in check, one lord too fat to sit a horse is quite enough for the North.

It is still nice, riding through the woods like this, Theon giving small teasing smiles over how old and useless Robb's palfrey is. He can't possibly know. This place is quieter than it was before, no bird calls echoing, and mayhaps they've gone to hide for the winter. It is, after all, coming.

For awhile, it's like none of it's happened at all – not just the filthy things Robb's done that Theon still probably doesn't know about, but all of it, Mother and Father and the Lannisters and the King and Bran. It's like Robb and Theon are boys again, they've sneaked out when they should be at lessons, to ride and share some cheap wine Theon won't tell Robb where he got. When they get back, Mother will give a judgemental sigh and Robb will grin sheepishly, but she won't be mad, not really. Father might clock him over the ear, but he'll shake his head and smile, knowing what boys are like at that age. Jon will pout, feeling left out again, and Robb will have to spend the night drinking and japing with him to make it up. Sansa will wrinkle her little nose and wonder why they would want to go out into the forests and get themselves filthy and probably be savaged by mountain lions as well. Arya will boast that she's a better rider than either of them, and she wouldn't be stupid enough to get savaged by lions. Bran will come running up to them and demand to know why he wasn't allowed to go riding too.

Robb flinches. They _should_ have taken Bran riding with them, with that saddle Tyrion Lannister designed – is that finished yet? He hasn't checked, he should have checked. He knows it's not easy for Bran, of course it's not, and sometimes he worries his little brother will go mad, cooped up in his room like that. Robb was so rude to Lord Tyrion, and the man turned down Winterfell's hospitality. He shouldn't have acted the way he did, but he was scared – a Lannister asking for shelter under their roof again, after what happened to Bran, what was he meant to think? But when Bran saw those blueprints, he hadn't looked so happy since his fall. Nothing Robb had said or done had made him look like that. Mayhaps it's all some cunning scheme – mayhaps there's some trick in the design so cleverly disguised, even Maester Luwin couldn't spot it, one that will throw Bran from his horse and kill him. But mayhaps Bran will throw himself from his rooms if he doesn't get out of them soon. _I'd rather be dead,_ he told Robb once, and he still shudders to think of that, and how he had no idea what to say to it.

Lord Tyrion said he'd be staying in the brothel that night, and when Robb swallowed around a prick laced with golden hair, he imagined it was him, that he could apologise for his rudeness with his whorish mouth (and Tyrion would accept _some_ of Winterfell's hospitality). It couldn't have been, he thinks – Lord Tyrion seems the type, like Theon, who prefers to see his girls and watch them come around his cock, and he probably wouldn't reach the hole in the wall anyway. But it made him feel better, to pretend.

He snaps out of his reverie to find Theon has managed to make his absurdly sized stallion pause (Robb would say he's compensating for something, but he knows that's not true). “Hey, can we stop for a second? I need a drink.”

Robb nods and dismounts, and watches as Theon takes a deep swig from his wineskin. He passes it to Robb and he takes a deeper one, even as he cringes at the bitter taste. Why does Theon buy such cheap wine? He could afford better.

“So,” Theon is grinning at him, voice low and sure and teasing. “I hear you've been visiting the brothel lately.”

_He knows._

Robb freezes.

 _No, oh gods, how does he know?_ He must have figured it out, seen Robb sneaking out in the dead of the night, heard Robb moaning in pleasure and recognised his voice, put together Ros' teasing talk about the Starks. Or mayhaps, mayhaps he _always_ knew – he's always known everything about Robb, and maybe he knew what he wanted, maybe he put Ros up to it, he does so much for Robb – but he can never help teasing–

Robb collapses against a tree in shock and confusion, wrapping his arms around himself like a child. He can hear Theon's footsteps getting closer, and he doesn't want to look at him, but he must. He won't be a coward about this – a whore perhaps, but not a coward. When he looks up, he knows Theon can see the hurt and accusation in his eyes. _You did this to me, Theon. You told me your stories. You made me want to be part of them._

He knows that's not fair, Theon didn't do anything he hadn't been doing for years, and Robb shouldn't try and blame him for this – that wouldn't be honourable.

Robb says the first thing that comes to mind: “Please don't tell my mother.”

Theon scoffs. “As if. She'd think it was my fault, say I corrupted you.” Robb flinches. _Mayhaps you did. At least I wish you had._ “If the bastard was here, I could try to foist the blame onto him, but right now no, I'm better off with her never hearing a single word.”

 _If Jon was here it might not have happened at all._ Robb looks away again. Theon won't tell, but for his own sake, not Robb's. _He does so much for me–_

“Robb, look at me.”

There's a hand on his jaw, Theon crouching by his side and his palm feeling the gentle fur his cock felt that night. He guides Robb to meet his eye again. “Do you think I'm angry with you? Come on. I've fucked half the whores in the North, I'm hardly one to judge.”

 _A whore and a whoremonger are not the same thing,_ Robb wants to say, but he can't bring himself to say anything. Theon sighs, and his hand moves from Robb's beard to Robb's hair, gently stroking him. _Mother used to do that._

“You're just a boy. A boy with all of Winterfell to look after,” Theon says. “Sure, your family won't approve, but are they here right now? No. They all fucking left you, and half the country in your hands. So frankly, they don't have the right to be angry about anything you do that keeps you going long enough to not just let the place burn.”

 _I've gone mad. This isn't happening. It can't be that easy, can it?_ Theon doesn't hate him for it, doesn't judge him for it, he understands. Right now, Robb wants to kiss him – not fuck him, not suck his cock, just _kiss_ him for being who he is. He also wants to cry, and to beg for Theon's soothing touch and gentle smirk.

“Besides, I always thought you were holding something back,” Theon whispers. “You Starks, all that honour. There must be some reason for it. I bet, when you let it go, you're fucking wild, aren't you?”

Robb bites his lip so as not to moan. _Don't you know that?_

Theon chuckles and claps him on the shoulder, then stands. “I'm not going to tell your little brothers either,” he says. “Speaking of which, we should be getting back. They'll be worried about us.”

He's going to go, he's going to get back on that horse and ride back to Winterfell, back to its servants who need to be paid, its peasants who need to be seen, its steward who still needs to be hired, and Bran and Rickon – Theon's right, they'll be worried, but–

Robb grabs at Theon with desperate hands. It's become habit, he realises. It's the easiest thing in the world to fumble at Theon's laces with shaking, eager fingers.

Theon seems bemused and Robb looks up at him with big wide eyes, the ones he wore when he was five and begging for an extra slice of pudding. _Don't look so surprised. You know what I want._

Then, it's like Theon _does_ know what he wants – something dark clouds over his gaze, he looks down on Robb as he looks down at him. Robb feels dizzy as he looks up, strangely drunk on just a mouthful of wine – a large mouthful, but still. Theon smirks, and nods. “Thank you,” Robb says.

He pulls away Theon's laces with practiced efficiency. He'll be good this time, not greedy like he was that night at the brothel. He wants Theon to know how grateful he is. He moans at the sight of Theon's cock – in broad daylight, it looks even bigger.

He kisses it first this time, shyly touching his lips to the head, looking up at Theon wide-eyed and waifish. Theon chuckles like he knows Robb's playing coy. Robb realises, with a thrill, that he can touch Theon now – not just his cock, but any part of him he wants, and so he does, running his hands up and down Theon's thighs as he sucks the head between his lips. _Just a taste,_ he thinks, smiling at how Theon shivers underneath him.

A hand winds through his hair and Robb does not think to take it as a warning. Not until he's shoved down, roughly, choking as Theon buries himself inside his throat. He moans in shock, pain, desire. _Yes, Theon, just like that._ He expects a remark, some jape about just how many men have done this to him, but nothing comes – just the steady rock of Theon's hips, fucking his throat without care for how he gags or splutters, and his eyes water as he fights just to breathe – but that doesn't matter, at least, not as much as Theon's cock does. When Robb looks up Theon's not even looking at him; his eyes are turned to the sky, smile playing on his features like he's thinking about something far more important than the slut sucking him off, and gods, how Robb loves him then. Robb somehow finds space to use his hand, to cup Theon's balls even as tears stream from his eyes, telling him how much he loves it, how much he appreciates everything Theon does for him. Theon still isn't looking at him. With the other hand, he can't help himself, he reaches for his own cock with pitiful need.

He's pulled off as roughly as he was pushed down. His mouth hangs open taking deep, shuddering breaths as his lungs ache with relief, but Robb only has eyes for that cock, just out of reach. “Theon,” he begs, fist closing around himself, “please.”

Theon smirks, and lets the head of his cock graze against Robb's lips. Robb's eyes fall closed and he moans. But when he moves to take it back in, Theon pulls away.

 _If I wasn't mad already, he means to make me so._ Robb shakes with want and humiliation, which are maybe one and the same thing, and Theon is looking down at him with such a vicious smirk he might come. “Theon,” he says, voice trembling and stroking himself desperately, “ _please_.”

Theon laughs. Then he looks down, at Robb's frantic attempts to pleasure himself. He raises an eyebrow.

Somehow, Robb understands.

He almost sobs as he lets go, lets his hand fall limply by his side, but then Theon claims his mouth once more and he might drown in the satisfaction. He still feels the need to touch himself, but the need for a cock in his mouth is deeper, more urgent, and Theon knows that. He knows everything about Robb.

Theon doesn't make Robb take him so deep now, and Robb won't be able to resist temptation if he doesn't find something to do with his hands, so he wraps one around the base of Theon's cock, and let's the other sneak, almost shyly, under the hem of his tunic. He can't reach very far, he has to fight to get underneath Theon's tight leather jerkin, but Theon groans at the feel of Robb's eager fingers. _Can't get enough, can you?_ Robb can almost hear him say, but he doesn't.

It's strangely quiet, when he thinks about it – the forest itself has an odd hush. The only noises Robb hears are the wet sucking and gurgling sounds of his own mouth. That night at the brothel, Theon was shouting and screaming, hissing and moaning, running his mouth constantly, telling Robb the dirtiest things. Now he fucks Robb's mouth like Robb's not even there. _Which one is the real you, Theon?_ Robb wonders as he teases and kneads Theon's balls. _Were you just play-acting for Ros then? Or are you play-acting for me now?_

Robb pulls off, struck by the strangest need to ask. But when he looks in Theon's eyes, he sees something dark and warm as a good Dornish red. He decides it doesn't matter.

So instead, he begs: “Hit me.”

Theon grins, and slaps Robb hard across the face.

He moans as he's sent backwards, it's pain and heat and pleasure and Robb thinks he might come from it. He looks up and sees Theon looming overhead, looking like a monster. “Again.” He offers the other cheek and Theon hits him harder this time, enough to send him spiralling into the dirt on his back.

It's good, it's so good like this and Robb is struck by the absolute terror that it'll never happen again. When else could Theon raise the courage to treat the Lord of Winterfell so badly? That thought really does drive Robb mad, and before he knows it he's rolling onto his front, tearing his breeches down to his knees, pushing himself up on all fours. He knows how stupid he's being and how much it will hurt without Ros' oil, he remembers that first time he tried putting just a finger in there, but he just can't stop himself, he can never stop himself. He doesn't care anymore, he needs it. Theon can fuck him bloody if he likes, he just wants–

He expects a chuckle, a snicker, some mocking of his desperation, an acknowledgement of what Robb's just done and what he's offering. He gets only silence. “Theon, please.” He shakes as he begs, head bowed and arse raised, like a bitch in heat. Gods, he wants to touch himself so much, but he knows Theon will never fuck him if he does. “Theon _please_.”

A few more seconds of unbearable quiet, and Robb's nerves are finally soothed by the sound of Theon dropping to his knees behind him. Two rough thumbs suddenly tear his cheeks apart, spreading him totally, and Robb moans helplessly. _That's right Theon, do that with your cock, just rip me in half._ He gets a hard slap to each cheek, and starts keening in the air, desperate. Theon spits on his hole and he shudders. _That's right Theon just put it in me put it in me put it in me..._

And he can feel it, hot and dripping against his hole and every muscle in him clutches so tight against it but those tears in his eyes, they're not from pain. Robb squirms onto it and gods, Theon's so wet he probably just has to slip, Robb can only imagine the heat of it burning inside him and–

Theon pulls away.

Robb lets out a plaintive cry, looking over his shoulder to tell what in all seven hells Theon is doing. When he looks he sees Theon with his eyes closed and his teeth biting into his lip, one hand still spreading Robb open but the other is closed around his own cock, stroking himself so close to Robb's hole but not close enough.

He can't help but whimper and when Theon hears him, he opens his eyes, snarls, grabs Robb's hair with the hand that was just around his prick, and shoves Robb's face into the dirt.

Robb moans so loud they must have heard him in King's Landing.

From that point on he just listens to Theon, grunting and groaning as he works his way to completion. Robb is sobbing and shivering, and he loves it, he's loved every second. _What would my mother think of me?_ Finally, Theon comes, and Robb is wracked with pleasure as he feels Theon's hot seed spill – not in his hole, but _on_ it.

As he finishes Theon presses his cock against Robb once more, taunting and teasing, wringing out the last drops. Robb knows Theon won't fuck him, not here, not now, but like this it's almost enough. Mayhaps Theon will let him come. Mayhaps he'll spit in Robb's face as Robb jerks off like a little boy beneath him. Mayhaps he'll shove his fingers deep into Robb, work his come in that way. Mayhaps–

Robb hears footsteps.

When he looks up, he sees Theon, chuckling as he tucks himself away. Then he takes one last gulp from his wineskin, saddles his horse, and rides off, thinking about something far more important than the slut begging for his cock.

It's so quiet in this forest, Robb can hear his own shaking breaths ringing in his ear like bells in the sept. He rolls on his back and, with no-one to stop him now, wraps a hand around his cock.

 _He didn't fuck me_ , Robb thinks as he pulls his knees up to his chest so he can shove two fingers inside with the other hand, using Theon's come to smooth the way. _Why didn't he fuck me? He was hard for me, he put his cock in my mouth, and I wanted it so much – I would have let him do anything if he'd do it buried inside me–_

(Some part of Robb that still thinks like a man and not a rutting beast assumes Theon didn't want to take the risk of tearing him. But that's not enough.)

 _It's because I wanted it too much_ , he realises with sudden clarity. _I got too greedy, begging for his cock like that, he had to put me in my place. If he doesn't want to fuck me, he doesn't have to. I'm just a whore, I should do what he says. I don't deserve his cock, I'm not good enough for it, and I should be grateful he lets me anywhere near–_

When Robb comes, he feels so good he could fly, and he screams like he's dying.


	6. fever pitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You should rest, Robb, it's the only way you'll recover. We need you strong and healthy.”
> 
>  _Of course you do, someone has to run this place._ Robb doesn't want to, he remembers what it was like those weeks when Bran just slept, and it was like he was living in the crypts of Winterfell, not the halls. But Luwin is right, it's the only way he'll recover, and they need him to recover. Bran needs him to recover. He sighs, and smiles, and nods. He lets them filter out of his room, Theon picking Bran off Hodor's back, before he falls back into the sheets and tries to sleep.
> 
> And while he sleeps, he dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This chapter. I honestly feel a little guilty about this chapter. Like I feel like lured you all in with all that porn, and now suddenly it's a horror movie, featuring lots of disturbing imagery, literally every goddamn trigger warning, way too much foreshadowing, and way, way too much symbolism.
> 
> So I'm sorry about that, and I might try and write some happy smut to make up for it later. And the moral of the story is: don't let Literature students write your porn for you.
> 
> Also I am so confused about what characters and pairings I should even tag this with over this chapter. *sigh* I don't make things easy on myself...
> 
> Also I would like to thank my high school psychology class for one of the like three things I remember from it, which I managed to incorporate into this chapter.

Robb is sick.

Mayhaps it happens because he was left half-naked and soaked with sweat and come alone in the forest, in the cold autumn breeze (how did he even get back? He can't recall). But he can't blame Theon for it, not really, not when it made him come so hard he thought he was dying. Theon only did what he wanted.

Nonetheless, he wakes up screaming from some dream he doesn't remember, and half the castle comes running. Maester Luwin feels his brow and tells him he has a fever. Of course, Robb Stark would never panic so at a childish nightmare unless there was something wrong with him.

From the corner of his eye he sees little Bran, curled on Hodor's back, biting his lip with worry. “Is Robb going to die?”

 _Am I?_ It seems stupid, but it does happen, strong young men's lives snuffed out by just a little fever. And how he got it, gods, what if he does die? What if Robb dies and leaves poor Bran all alone to be Lord of Winterfell in his stead, because Robb just wanted to be fucked so badly?

Theon chuckles. “Of course not, Bran, don't worry. He's just got a bit of a sniffle and is kicking up a fuss about it. Go on, go punch him for waking us all up at this hour. That'll make him feel better.”

Bran giggles at that and Robb can barely even see right now, but he can make out Theon smiling at Bran, ruffling his hair, taking Bran's little hand in his own. _He does so much for me._ Maester Luwin hums as he fetches a wetcloth and wipes the sweat from Robb's brow. “Theon's right, Bran, unless things get worse, we should assume it's just a simple fever. Your brother's been under a lot of stress lately, and that sometimes makes men sick.”

 _If only you knew._ Luwin sighs as he puts the cloth away. “You should rest, Robb, it's the only way you'll recover. We need you strong and healthy.”

 _Of course you do, someone has to run this place._ Robb doesn't want to, he remembers what it was like those weeks when Bran just slept, and it was like he was living in the crypts of Winterfell, not the halls. But Luwin is right, it's the only way he'll recover, and they need him to recover. Bran needs him to recover. He sighs, and smiles, and nods. He lets them filter out of his room, Theon picking Bran off Hodor's back, before he falls back into the sheets and tries to sleep.

And while he sleeps, he dreams. 

* * *

He's in the woods again, but they are not the same woods. These ones are warmer, greener, wetter. It is not dirt he sinks into, but mud. He's on his back with legs spread, not his knees with his arse in the air. He hasn't seen the man above him before, he can't recognise his face, he can't even be sure he has a face, but that doesn't matter when the man fucks him so well. Robb knows there are hands pinning his wrists above his head, but they don't belong to the man inside him, who grabs him by the hips to fuck him deeper, harder, rougher. Robb moans and wonders how many men there are.

As he blinks he starts to realise, there are a lot. The one fucking him and the one holding him down are just the beginning. Robb gasps as he sees them, dozens, hundreds, maybe thousands, so many they seem to go on forever. He whimpers as the man inside fucks him harder. They're laughing, joking, snickering at the whore on his back for them – they're all so interchangeable, and it takes a moment for Robb to realise they're all dressed the same, all dressed in red. Robb smells blood in the air. He looks at the man on top of him, and the golden lion that bestrides his tunic while he grunts over Robb like a rutting animal. Robb looks up and sees the man holding him down – Tywin Lannister; he's never even met Tywin Lannister but somehow, he knows that's him.

He gasps as a Lannister soldier fucks the heir of Stark. _A rape after a battle_ , he thinks. But no, that can't be it, not when it feels like that, not when Robb just wants to spread his legs wider and beg for more of it. It should hurt, forced down and fucked by dozens of men like this, but he can't feel that beyond the all-consuming pleasure. He shouldn't want it. He has to stop them, he knows, these are the _Lannisters_ , the family that tried to kill Bran, their enemies, Stark enemies, _his_ enemies and all he wants are their cocks inside him.

Squirming is almost a protest, and it's almost a plea; he can fool himself that it's both things at once. He has to stop, somehow, but can he? They're holding him down, and there are so many of them, and just the one of him – where is his army? If he fought a battle, shouldn't he have an army?

 _I'm just a whore. I'd let anyone do it._ It's so good when the man moves faster, harder inside him, quickening like he's about to come, and Tywin Lannister just watches with bemused detachment, as if he's surprised the son of Stark is so weak. “The young wolf,” he murmurs and Robb moans like a bitch in heat.

Tywin Lannister cannot know this, he can't watch, he can't see how desperate Robb is and how he will disgrace his house in a heartbeat if you just put a cock inside him. Robb can't let him. He's the enemy, and it will destroy his family if he lets Tywin know just how weak he is.

But his family aren't here, are they? _Mother, Father, what did you expect? Am I supposed to fight them all off on my own?_ And so Robb doesn't fight – he gasps, he whines, he keens, and when the man finally stops and finishes inside him he spreads his legs wider and begs: “Another.”

(In the moment it takes for one Lannister soldier to switch with another, he thinks he sees a girl he's never met before – a maid as fair as summer. But she's gone in a second.)

The second man is bigger, rougher, meaner – this man likes to hurt him: likes to punch his face, bite his neck, bruise his nipples. He's got such a big cock, and Robb imagines he'll be bleeding tomorrow. _Mother will think I hated it,_ he thinks with such a sense of bliss. _She'll never know how I begged for more._

His eyes snap open as that monstrous cock plows him once again. _If this is what happens after I lose a battle, I'll lose every single battle._

Then over the man's shoulder, he spies someone else. Another man, looking on stern and solemn and grave.

Father.

The soldier thrusts once more and it _hurts_. “W-wait,” Robb chokes, and the man fucking him just laughs, as does the army waiting to fuck him, and Lord Tywin holding him down so they can fuck him, though he doesn't seem the sort of man who laughs often. Father doesn't laugh. “Stop.”

That only makes the soldier thrust harder, and Robb whimpers with the pain of it, mud splashing over him and getting in his eyes. “Father, help,” he whispers.

He can feel himself bleeding, dirt seeping into the tear, and he's terrified. _This is just the second man. I'll be dead before they're half-done with me._ “Father, _help_ ,” he begs again, and Lord Stark just looks on like he's never seen Robb before in his life.

Robb starts to struggle, starts to writhe against Lannister's hands, but what can he do? Lord Tywin isn't a strong man, but Robb can't fight him off like this, not on his back with the soldier's weight pinning him down. If he fought back earlier, he could have managed it, still on his feet with a sword in his hands, but–

What could Father do, anyway? The whole Lannister army is here, and there's only one of him. Besides, why would he? To stop his whore of a son getting what he always really wanted?

And so Father turns on his heel, leaving Robb to scream in pain while the whole Lannister army rapes him into the mud. 

* * *

A whore on all fours, sneaked into Theon's room in the dead of the night. Robb has this dream often. He moans as Theon thrusts into him, but no, it's not him, it's Ros, she's taking it and he's just watching by the door. That's strange. Usually that happens the other way around.

Robb stares in jealous want as Theon fucks her hard from behind. “You like that, slut?” he asks, pulling on her red hair.

_Gods, yes, I do._

Ros just mewls.

Theon suddenly pulls out of her, spins her around by her hair. She looks up, shivering. He laughs at her. “Fucking whore.”

He slaps her hard across the face.

Robb gasps, and feels his cock pulse in his breeches. Ros doesn't react. Theon grins, does it again, and this time Ros lets out a small noise – like this wasn't part of her plan.

“You like that, slut?”

“No.”

Robb barely hears it it's so quiet, but it seems to enrage Theon, and when he hits her again she goes sprawling to the floor. Robb can see her face now, and her eye is starting to blacken with the force of the blow. She's starting to cry. He feels sick.

“I don't care.”

Theon _punches_ her, and Robb jumps with shock. _Theon, what in the seven hells are you doing?_ He can see what Theon's doing, he's hurting her. But why?

“Because I want to,” says Theon, answering his question without him ever asking it.

Ros whimpers in fear and pain, and Robb watches as every time Theon strikes her, her clothes start to tear. From the holes leaks blood, and it comes from so many places, not just where you'd think a whore might bleed. Robb remembers a doll his mother once made for Sansa, that doubled as a pincushion. He remembers the needles she stuck into it without a second thought. Arya threw it in the fire during one of hers and Sansa's fights, he remembers, and how angry Sansa – and Mother – was about that. _It was too morbid anyway!_ Arya protested. Robb remembers the wiry black string Mother used for the hair.

He sees Sansa again, bruised all over, except for her face ( _I like her pretty,_ someone says). She's half-naked and crying, her dress torn from her body. Robb can't breathe for rage. He wants to _kill_ whoever made his little sister look like that. But if it was him who looked like that, if it was him–

It's not him who looks like that though, or Sansa, it's Ros. Theon's still beating her, and she's bleeding so much Robb thinks she might be dead.

“For gods' sake Theon, stop!” he shouts.

Theon stops immediately, and looks up at Robb, surprised. “Yes, my lord,” he says. “But why?”

Before Robb can answer ( _because she's a human being and you're beating her to death!_ ), Theon disappears.

Ros, or Ros' body, is still there, but it's like Theon's just blinked out of existence. In the distance Robb hears the sound of an old man, or mayhaps a dog, crying.

* * *

He's in a bed, he thinks, eyes closed and half-asleep against warm satin sheets. _A lord's bed,_ but no, this is finer than where he sleeps. What then? Above him, he hears noises – wet and squelching, and soft sighs of pleasure. Oh. The whore knows what it sounds like when men are touching themselves over him. He opens his eyes.

It's not a bed he's in at all, it's a coffin. A coffin made of the finest oak and lined with Dornish silk the colour of Dornish wine. Fit for a king, but nonetheless a coffin. That's odd. Above him are six men, and somehow he knew there would be six of them.

First is Prince Joffrey, wearing that smug grin that made Robb want to beat him into the dirt when he visited Winterfell. Robb can't breathe for rage.

Next to him is his grandfather, Tywin Lannister. Robb's dreamt of him before.

Then Theon. What is Theon doing with these people?

Then a man Robb's never seen before, but he looks almost like the King, and also the complete opposite of the King – but he has the same deep blue eyes and black hair. There's something black on his neck as well, something small and slimy – a leech? But no, the leech isn't on his neck, it's on Joffrey's. Robb sees Sansa, half-naked and crying, her dress torn from her body, and thinks _well that fucker deserves it._

Another man he hasn't met, one so fat and old and ugly, it shocks Robb. Robb couldn't have dreamt him up in his dirtiest fantasises.

Lastly a man he might have met, many years ago when he was just a boy, and he terrified him then as he terrifies him now. His eyes are blue too, but lighter than those of the man who does and doesn't look like the King. His blues are horrible, vicious, the colour of ice.

Robb does not know what is going on.

 _Let it happen,_ some treacherous part of him whispers. _You're just a whore. You'd let anyone do it._

And Robb would, he'd close his eyes and let the sound of men using his body for their pleasure soothe him to sleep, but then out of the corner of his eye he spots something. A woman watching. His own blue eyes and red hair mirrored back at him. Mother.

He gasps as he sees her, and blushes at what he must look like, his mouth gaping open to catch all that come. He's hard at the thought of it, letting these men he hates and loves and doesn't even know spill all over him just the same, but he can't touch himself, not like this, not with her looking. He wants to protest whatever it is she must think of him, tell her it's not what it looks like, but Robb doesn't even know what it is.

(Briefly he sees another girl he doesn't know. This one has honey-brown eyes, kind ones like Ros', as sweet as honey too. She has chestnut curls that glint golden in candlelight.)

She doesn't move, but there is something mad in her eyes as she watches. He's heard rumours about his Aunt Lysa. _Mayhaps it runs in the family._

So Robb just lies there, frozen as these men take their pleasure from his body (still as a corpse), letting his mother watch. As she watches, the red seems to drain from her hair. It's turning white. _No, don't,_ he thinks. _Father loves your hair._

Then the men start to come.

Prince Joffrey goes first, because these men are all lords of the Seven Kingdoms and of course, they must be courteous and take their turns, and defer to royalty. Joffrey grins and laughs and fists himself wildly, spreading his come as wide as he can. He just wants to humiliate Robb. _This boy will be king one day._

Next Tywin, quick and efficent, just a release – a means to an end.

Then Theon, but there is something weak, half-hearted, regretful about it.

Stannis Baratheon comes like Tywin, a quick release, a means to an end – but his end seems bigger, grander somehow (for a second Robb sees Jon).

Walder Frey is snickering, makes it last as long as he can, wants to drown Robb in it. Like Joffrey, he wants to humiliate him.

And Roose Bolton, he comes so hard Robb flinches at the force of it. It's like being stabbed.

Robb looks up at his mother and sees, with horror, the red all over her face. Scars, fresh and bleeding. Like someone just tore her face open. They really do mirror each other now, his head covered with red hair and white come, her head covered with white hair and red blood.

He shouldn't want to, shouldn't be able to, and yet somehow Robb still shudders and comes in his breeches like a green boy. Like the boy she last saw. When he does, he howls like a wolf.

Then the man with ice for eyes slams the coffin lid on him. 

* * *

Father's bedchambers, although thankfully not Father's bed. Robb is not _that_ depraved. Instead, he is just watching as Father, completely clothed, fucks some naked person from behind. Not Mother. This one has dark hair, and is skinny with nothing of Mother's curves. _Jon's mother, mayhaps?_

Whoever it is, they groan as Father uses them, roughly. “Do you like that, slut?” he growls in their ear.

“Yes, my lord.”

Robb blinks at the sound of that voice. _Theon?_

The person looks up and sure enough, it is Theon. His cock hangs limply between his legs and his eyes are glassed over, like he's trying to imagine he's somewhere else. He doesn't look like he likes it at all. Father either doesn't notice or doesn't mind, he just grunts as he fucks Theon's hole. Robb can't see a trace of lust on his face. So why is he doing it?

Robb is struck by the strangest urge to go over there, to join in, but to do it differently – to lay underneath Theon, to kiss his lips and stroke his cock, to let Theon sheath himself inside him. To try and make it good for Theon. Would Theon let him? He cannot say.

Father slaps Theon's arse, the way he used to discipline his children when they were little (did he do that to Theon too? Robb cannot say). “Get on your knees,” he says. “Suck my cock.”

“Yes, my lord.”

It's the same voice Theon uses when Lord Stark orders him to fetch Ice. _A sword-swallower, through and through._ Robb just watches as Theon sinks into the floor to suck Robb's father off, like he has no choice (he has no choice).

When Theon takes him in his mouth the man changes. It's not Father anymore, but someone else who Robb hasn't met – someone with long scraggly hair and the smell of the sea about him. He looks a bit like Theon, except Theon is always smiling, and this man looks like he's never smiled in his life. He looks like the sort of man who hates everything, but nothing so much as the boy currently swallowing him whole. As his throat is fucked, Theon can't hide a sob.

Then the man changes again. Not a man anymore, but a boy, Robb's age or younger. He's ugly, fat and bloated with lips like two worms fucking. He has horrible blue eyes. The sort of man Robb would imagine just to degrade himself. He notices how much he's hurting Theon, and it makes him grin. In the distance, Robb hears the sound of an old man, or mayhaps a dog, crying. 

* * *

Robb is in the woods again, the ones outside Winterfell, and Theon is giving him what he wouldn't the last time they were here. He's fucking him hard from behind, and Robb moans at how good it feels. He's already come once, he thinks, and Theon barely even noticed, just kept using Robb for his own pleasure. That's right, that's how it should be. That's how Robb likes it.

“Robb?”

He looks up. He thinks that might have been Theon, but no, he's not said Robb's name since they got here (he's not said anything since they got here). Robb then sees his own blue eyes, watching him with horror and shame. Mother.

Theon only fucks him harder. Robb moans.

“Robb.”

Next to Mother is Jon, staring with a lump in his throat. He and Theon always hated each other, were always squabbling, usually over Robb – as to who was his true brother. Robb wants to laugh. _You won Jon. Do you think I'd do this with my brother?_

( _But you left Jon. He didn't. So who's my brother now?_ )

It's strange, seeing Jon and Mother look at him with so much contempt, the way they used to look at each other. He should feel ashamed, he should pull away from Theon, he should try and cover his nakedness and keep what's left of his dignity. But he doesn't. No, as they stare in utter disbelief at how Theon has corrupted him, Robb decides he likes it. _He didn't corrupt me. You did._

“Don't look at me like that,” he says, and it should be a plea, but no, it's an order. It's the first time in months he's felt like he has the right to give orders. “Don't. You don't have the right.”

He groans, squirming shamelessly for more of Theon's cock. “You left me,” he says through fevered breath.

Because they did. Father and Sansa and Arya, they did as the king commanded, they had no choice (even if Robb knows Sansa _wanted_ to leave). But these two, they did. Robb can't forgive them that.

Jon always wanted to leave, because what he had wasn't enough for him, not when everyone around him had so much more. Not when Robb had so much more. He left to be something better than himself, something better than the bastard of Winterfell, something better than Robb's brother. No matter how much Robb needed a brother.

“Do you want Winterfell, Jon?” he asks. “You can have it. Who knows, maybe you'll find yourself fucking every man there just to feel like a human being again too.”

Jon says nothing, and Robb groans as he closes his eyes. He hopes Jon's happy up on that wall of his. He hopes the men there all love him, respect him, look up to him. He hopes they make him Lord Commander one day. _Lord Snow,_ that has a ring to it. Yes, Robb hopes Jon gets everything he ever wanted. And he hopes Jon hates it every bit as much as Robb does.

And Mother, and his mother. She was the real reason Jon left. He would have done so anyway, someday, but maybe not _that_ day, the same day as everyone else. But he had to do so then, because otherwise he would have been trapped in Winterfell with her, with the woman who had never been able to do anything but hate him. And Jon hates her too, Robb knows he does. He always pretended not to know. _She was very kind,_ Jon told him and Robb pretended to believe him – like if he believed that he would have asked the question in the first place. Then Jon left, and Robb smiled and japed and hugged him, and pretended not to hate him for it, pretended not to hate them both.

Robb is alone, Robb is a wreck, and Robb is a whore because those two hate each other far more than they've ever loved him.

He has his mother's looks. He has the Tully eyes, the Tully hair, the Tully cheekbones. Mother's always been so proud of her nobility, although she'd never say so out loud. Sometimes he wonders if she knows people who aren't nobles are real people at all. He doesn't think she ever knew Jon was real, he thinks she always let herself believe he was a nightmare, one she might wake up from soon. So, it makes Robb smirk to think of how he's hollowed those Tully cheekbones around so many cocks, peasants' and sell-swords' and bastards'.

When she left, she did it for Bran. Because the Lannisters tried to kill him and she had to go south, to warn Father, to let them know how much danger they were all in. Robb could never hate her for that. He loves Bran, would do anything to protect him (Bran and Rickon, they are his true brothers, and Robb loves them so much even if it might kill him). Family, duty, honour; she had no choice.

(Though she should be back by now.)

But before that, those weeks when Bran just slept, and Mother just sat by his bedside like the living dead. It was like living in the crypts, and Robb felt like he was suffocating. Everyone kept _looking_ at him, because they didn't know who else to look at, with the Lord of Winterfell gone and the Lady of Winterfell all but gone. He remembers his goodbye with Father, laced with so many things unsaid. _I know I'm asking a lot of you, Robb,_ Father said, clapping him on the shoulder, _but there's no-one more ready for the task._

Robb smiled and nodded and told his father that he wouldn't let him down. What a joke. Robb just wanted to sob and throw himself against his father's chest, beg him not to go, tell him he wasn't ready. But he couldn't. If he did he would have let Father down already.

 _Rickon needs you_ , he told his mother, so grateful for the excuse, so desperate not to fail Father. _I need you,_ he wanted to say. _I can't do this alone. I don't know how. I'm trying the best I can, mother, but I need you with me. I need you to smile at me, I need you to stroke my hair, I need you to hug me when I don't know how to ask you to. I need your kind eyes. I need my mother, not her corpse. Please come back._

And Mother did come back. She came back with a vengeance and fury because the Lannisters tried to kill Bran, she cut her hands to the bone trying to stop them. Robb hated himself for it, but he couldn't help but be grateful that happened, because he was just so glad to see her. And then she was gone again. She left in a second, because family, duty, honour, barely stopping to look at her firstborn.

“You came back,” he says, choking on his words (he will not cry, not now). “But not for me.”

He should open his eyes, see what they look like now, see if they have the decency to look ashamed of themselves. But no, he decides. He doesn't care what they think. “I don't need you,” he tells them. “I don't need anyone.” For a second, he swears Theon pauses. “I just need this.”

Then he opens his eyes, letting them roll back in his head as he moans in pleasure. He's play-acting for them. He sees them share a long look, sigh, and shake their heads at one another. It seems like they have finally found something they can relate to each other over. Then they start to walk away.

It's like a bubble bursting, or perhaps being crashed over by an ocean wave. “No, wait, stop!” They don't, but Theon does, and Robb scrambles to his feet, covering his prick with his hands (they aren't even looking at him). “Please don't go.”

They pause, backs still turned, and Robb pants, panicking. Gods, how could he have been so stupid? He's just a child, really, a child who thinks all the world owes him something, and gets mad when he doesn't get it. “I didn't mean all that,” he says, and he did, he meant every word of it, but that's alright, he's a good liar – whores tend to be. “I'm sorry. I just got angry.”

Despite himself, he can't help the lump in his throat coming out in his voice. “I don't need this, not really,” he says and he doesn't even know if it's a lie. “I can do it, I swear I can. I can be anything you want me to be. I can be a lord, I can be a warden, I can even be Bran and Rickon's father if our own isn't here. Just – just come back. Please. I can do it, but not alone. Please, just _come back_ –” 

* * *

Where is he now? He has no idea. It's very dark, wherever it is. He supposes it doesn't matter. He's being fucked from behind again, and he seems to get fucked from behind a lot. He's always liked it when they can't see his face.

He doesn't know who's fucking him, but that doesn't matter either. It feels good, and that's all he needs. Yet somehow, he knows the man has blue eyes. He's slow, careful, and Robb shudders underneath him – knowing this man could break him in half.

“Do you trust me, Your Grace?”

“Yes, my lord.” It's a lie, of course it's a lie, Robb doesn't even know this man and he's sure he wouldn't trust him if he did. He might not want it so much if he did trust him. He likes the thought he's in danger. He likes the thought he's so desperate for it he doesn't care if he's in danger.

“Do you like it, Your Grace?”

“Yes, my lord.” Robb moans as that long, thin, hard cock slides slowly into him, like sheathing a sword. Of course he likes it. Everyone knows he likes it.

“Do you want me to fuck you harder, Your Grace?”

“Yes, my lord.” Robb will always want someone to fuck him harder.

And so this man Robb doesn't trust does, he fucks him good and hard and yet so very controlled, and Robb bangs his fists and gnashes his teeth, thrusting back, losing control. _Fuck me harder,_ he thinks. _Fuck me until I break._

He moans as that cock gets so deep inside, deeper than he thought it could – it hurts a little, but he doesn't mind. It's not as thick as he'd like, either, but he doesn't mind that either, not when it fucks him so hard – though it's almost like it's getting thinner – it hurts a lot now–

Robb feels something hot against his thigh, and realises, with a surge of terror, he doesn't have a cock inside him at all. He has a knife.

“Do you want me to fuck you harder, Your Grace?”

Robb whimpers, frozen. “No,” he begs. “No, stop. No, please.”

“Do you like it, Your Grace?”

Robb screams, but it's so dark and there's no-one here to hear him. Oh gods, he's going to die. He can feel the blood pouring down his legs. He can feel the blood pouring all over him, from places you wouldn't think a whore might bleed. He'll die like this, being fucked, and having told the man who killed him how much he liked it first. _What will my mother think–?_

Then he's flipped on his back. Above him isn't some blue-eyed terrifying man with a knife, but Theon. Robb sighs with relief, and Theon smiles at him. Robb groans as he feels himself spread around Theon's cock, nice and thick. “I was worried for a second there,” he says.

“Coward.”

Robb chuckles. Theon fucks him slowly, gently, not how Robb would usually like it, but he doesn't mind, not with Theon. He looks so cocky at the way Robb trembles for more of his prick, and he lets his hands drift all over Robb, petting his hair, pinching his nipples, ghosting over his cock. Robb groans.

“Tease.”

“That's what you love about me.”

It's true, he loves it when Theon teases him. Everyone else is so serious with him, because he's Lord Stark, Warden of the North, acting Lord of Winterfell. To Theon he's just Robb. And Robb needs him more than anyone.

Robb feels Theon's hands sneak their way up his chest, stroking and rubbing and petting, making him moan. Then they pause, fingers resting against Robb's collarbones. Theon gives him an oddly serious look.

“Do you trust me, Your Grace?”

 _Why are you calling me Your Grace?_ But he supposes it doesn't matter. “You know I do,” he says.

Theon smiles. “I do know.”

Then, ever so gently, he closes one hand around Robb's neck, and squeezes.

Robb's surprised, but it doesn't hurt, not really. Then it starts to feel good. It starts to make him feel so very hot. Sometimes he gets annoyed, that Theon knows what he wants better than he himself knows it, but it seems like a silly thing to complain about. Theon squeezes a little tighter, and he moans.

“Theon,” he gasps with the breath he can muster, “what are you–?”

“Trust me, Your Grace.”

 _Why are you calling me that?_ Robb shudders, his whole body aching for air, but Theon only squeezes tighter. He claws at Theon's wrist, but Theon shakes him off easily. His head hurts. This is too much, he doesn't like it anymore. He tries to open his mouth and say as much, but he can't speak, can only choke.

It's so dark, Robb can't see anything, but he smells smoke and hears two little boys screaming. _Bran and Rickon?!_ No, it can't be, it doesn't even sound like them – but somehow he knows it is. He knows it even if it's not true. He looks up at Theon, eyes wide and begging.

“Trust me.”

 _But you're hurting me!_ Robb thinks as Theon squeezes his neck so tight he might break it. _Fuck me until I break,_ he said. Bran and Rickon are still screaming and Robb can't do a thing to help them. He feels helpless, he feels confused, he feels blood pouring from his throat. He'll die like this, being fucked, having told the man who killed him how much he trusted him first.

(He sees a girl, honey-brown eyes, kind eyes, eyes that would do anything to make him feel better.)

Theon chokes him until everything goes black as soot, and he feels so hot, he feels like he's burning alive. 

* * *

Robb's fever breaks on the sixth day.

“There you are,” Maester Luwin smiles at him as Robb opens his eyes and gives him a bleary grin. “We were starting to worry about you.”

“I'm fine,” he says, even if he's still soaked with sweat and shaking. “Like Theon said. Bit of a sniffle. Kicked up a real fuss about it.”

Luwin's look is so soft, but then something clouds over his eyes with worry. Robb frowns. He needs to know, even if he doesn't want to.

“What is it?”

“News from King's Landing,” Maester Luwin says. “About your lord father.”


	7. chokehold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's tried to stop, really he has, but every time he's come back, filthier and more desperate than the time before. _It doesn't matter if you never do it again, you'll always be what you are now and you'll never be anything more – a whore._ That's what he told himself that first time he came back out of the cold, smelling of come and cheap wine, curling up in his bed so full of shame it almost hurt. But if he's already a whore 'til the end of his days, then why not do it again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we are going to follow up the chapter with probably the most redeeming artistic merit with the chapter with probably the least redeeming artistic merit, because I like to keep y'all on your toes like that. Seriously, this chapter is entirely, in order of proportion: 1. porn, 2. bureaucracy, and 3. class conflict. I hope you're cool with that.
> 
> This chapter is also absurdly long, because there wasn't really a good place to cut it in half.

It feels like routine, even if Robb's not sure it's ever quite happened before. Robb gets some news that lets him know he has to be a proper Lord of Winterfell now, he has to live up to his father's example, he can't possibly go crawling back to the brothel for come and cock. Then the stress of it drives him so mad that crawling back he goes, more desperate than ever.

Robb is predictable, even to himself.

 _Struck down in the streets,_  he thinks, burrowing into his cheapest cloak. The Lannisters are getting too brave now. _And Jory Cassel, they put a sword through his eye. I knew him since I was a babe, he talked his uncle into letting me use live steel for the first time. I was only eleven._ He's not seen Ser Rodrik cry yet, but the man has spent many hours alone in his room since the letter came. And Father, what of Father? Laying in bed with a fever, far more honourable than Robb's own. _What if he dies? What if I'm Lord of Winterfell forever?_

He shakes his head. He needs to forget it, just for the night. One more time with a cock in his head and nothing else, no thoughts, no fears, no awful dreams (he can't even remember most of the things he dreamt when he was ill, and he doesn't want to). He'll be better tomorrow, dumb with shame but he'll be able to think, he'll know what they should do, he'll give the guards their orders, he'll take little Bran and Rickon by the hands and tell them everything will be alright, Father's going to be fine – because Robb will make it so. But once more. He just needs it one more time.

(Robb is a good liar, but not that good.)

* * *

When he arrives, the brown-haired woman is standing there, grinning. That's not so unusual, Robb sees her often, but none of the girls are there – usually she brings Ros out the second she sees him coming. Even to her, he's predictable. She only grins wider as he approaches her, a little awkward.

“Um... hello,” he says.

“Hello,” she says quickly.

“Is Ros...?”

“Busy.”

He blinks. It's a surprise that hasn't happened before really, but Ros is usually very good about letting him know her quiet hours. He's never picked a girl other than Ros. The brown-haired woman asked him once, if none of the other wenches caught his eye, and he said no – and she sighed, assuming he was just a customer getting attached and it would not end well for anyone, except for her, since she was making a lot of coin out of it. What now? He can't just _leave_ , he needs it, he needs it so much he might burst. Should he just buy another girl, get inside and sneak away so he can go get what he really wants? No, it's a stupid plan – the girl would notice her customer just disappearing, she'd be insulted, upset, and he wouldn't have Ros looking out for him, making excuses if anyone got too close. He'd be caught for sure. He could fuck her first and then just not leave, and gods, he'd do anything for a cock in him right now – but then there could be a child, and no, he couldn't. What would his mother think? What would _Jon_ think?

“I – oh,” he says, desperately trying to come up with some plan ( _how am I meant to save my father when I can't even get a man in my mouth without help?_ ), “I guess I'll just – wait?”

He expects the woman to be put off, for her to squint suspiciously or just roll her eyes at his pathetic pining, but instead she keeps grinning. “Very good,” she says. “While you do, why don't you step into my solar for a moment? You and I could have a nice chat.”

Robb frowns. _Something's wrong._ It will hardly seem less suspicious if he refuses and flees, however, so he finds himself following her into a small dark room behind the counter, albeit one nowhere near as small and dark as the room he spends most of his time here in. She's older than he thought she was, he realises. The light in that front room is just flattering (which would be useful, considering it's a brothel). Mayhaps she does own the place after all.

“Would you like some wine, m'lord?” she asks, and he cocks his head to the side. _She knows I'm highborn._

“No thank you.”

She smirks and pours herself a glass, and Robb listens to the ice clinking.

“So,” she says, taking a long, sure sip, “let's stop pretending we don't both know why you're here.”

Robb's glad he didn't take her offer of wine, because he's sure he would have just spat it all out. He doesn't want to stain her carpets.

She seems amused by his shock. “What, did you think no-one would ever figure it out? Come now, you weren't very subtle. I had my suspicions since the first night you arrived – sure, having a favourite is one thing, but you never even looked at any of the other girls. And she never seemed too worked over when you were done with her. Still, I didn't really put it together until last week, when we didn't see you and then suddenly I was getting questions about where the brilliant cocksucker upstairs had gone, and Cass was complaining about her knees again. Then it made a bit more sense. Ros never seemed the type to indulge a john who thought he was in love with her.”

Robb is still reeling, and so says the first thing he can think of: “Will she be in trouble?”

This woman scoffs. “When she's dropped something so pretty and so desperate right into my lap? Hardly. No, I admire the girl's ingenuity; she's going places, that one. Would have been nice it she'd mentioned it to me earlier, but I understand she was taking some time to get you comfortable.”

 _Pretty and desperate._ He realises she's talking about him, and blushes. “Oh come now, don't look like that,” she walks over, standing by him even if he can't look her in the eye. “You're not the first. Highborns, they're all perverts – no offense, of course, m'lord. I make a lot of money out of highborn perverts. And wasn't there that one King of the Rock?”

Of course, Queen Lorea. He knows the story well, if only because it's one of the few things from lessons Theon ever remembered. They went into Winter Town and saw a puppet show about it once. Robb was only ten, too young to really understand, but he laughed. Oh, how he laughed.

“I – I can pay you back,” he says, still red as her wine. “Whatever I've earnt here–”

“You earned that money fair and square, and you're keeping it,” this woman tells him. “In fact, I wouldn't mind at all if you earned a little more money.”

He stares at her, stunned, and she chuckles. “Oh sweetling, you really don't understand, do you? You're good for business. Do you think I get complaints when just any whore isn't there for a week? You'll be even better value once the men can actually see you. Such a pretty boy, but look at those muscles; those cheekbones were made for sucking cock, and redheads are popular up north. And highborn. Do you have any idea how much peasants will pay to come on a little lordling's face?”

Robb fights back a groan. _I'd let them do it for free_. He doesn't fight it back quite well enough though, and she giggles.

“...Do you know who I am?” he asks, because he really should. He should know how much trouble he's in.

She shakes her head. “And I don't want to either. The fewer people know who you are, the less chance you have of getting caught. And if you got caught, you'd have to stop, which wouldn't be good for either of us. I don't think I'll have any trouble convincing the customers you really are highborn, though. I mean just _look_ at you.”

He flushes. “I'm sorry, this is all just a bit sudden–”

“You've been whoring yourself here for months love. It's a lot of things, but sudden isn't one of them.”

Robb bites his lip. Is he really going to accept? He said he was only going to do it once more, just to clear his head enough that he might know what to do about Father, about King's Landing and the Lannisters, all of it. _But you knew you were lying to yourself._ And what is his other option? Stop? He doubts she'd let him back in to whore on her premises once he'd turned down her generous offer to make an employee of him. Robb knows it shouldn't matter, that he should stop, that he'll get himself killed like this, but he knows how it feels when he wakes up in the middle of the night needing it so badly it's like he's dying already. _What's become of me?_

“Someone might recognise me,” he warns himself as much as her. “One of my clients might have met me before.”

She shrugs. “My clientele mostly doesn't move in the same circles you do, m'lord. I suppose guards and servants could be a problem, but you could warn me if you recognised anyone.” Or mayhaps, mayhaps they just wouldn't recognise him, they wouldn't let themselves. They might blink and go _huh, you look a lot like the boy I work for,_ but they wouldn't really think it was him. How could it be? What would the honourable little Lord Stark be doing whoring himself in a brothel? “And some of the local lords like to slum it, but I wouldn't take the risk of sending them to you.”

 _Theon._ Of course, that is Robb's other option. Go back to Winterfell and beg Theon for more of what he gave him in that forest, and what he didn't give him in that forest. They still haven't talked about that though, Robb too full of shame, Bran and Rickon always around, and Theon looking like nothing happened at all. Sometimes Robb doubts it did. Mayhaps Theon thought it was a mistake, mayhaps he thinks it's a miracle Robb hasn't had his head for it, and he'll never do it again. Mayhaps if Robb says no to this woman he'll never get what he needs.

 _I don't need this, not really._ He tried saying that in one of his dreams, although he can't remember why. But did he mean it? He's tried to stop, really he has, but every time he's come back, filthier and more desperate than the time before. _It doesn't matter if you never do it again, you'll always be what you are now and you'll never be anything more – a whore._ That's what he told himself that first time he came back out of the cold, smelling of come and cheap wine, curling up in his bed so full of shame it almost hurt. But if he's already a whore 'til the end of his days, then why not do it again?

“Of course, I will need a name,” she says. That shocks him. “Not your real one, of course. Even the lowborn girls don't usually give me their real name, it's not safe. You don't even have to use it with the clients, if you don't want to; trust me, very few of them will care about your name. But I just need something to put on the accounts.”

 _Even a brothel has fucking accounts._ His mouth hangs open, and then he finds himself blurting the first name that springs to mind: “Petyr.”

The woman grins like she knows he's just accepted. Robb gulps. Why that name, of all the names in the world? He doesn't even know anyone called Petyr. Some story of Mother's, mayhaps?

“Petyr,” she repeats after him, and it's like the matter is settled. “I'm Lya.”

He should bow, kiss her hand, tell her how honoured he is to make her acquaintance. That's how he was taught to meet a lady. Before he can she moves away, pulling a piece of parchment out of her desk, about to write down his fake name and mark him forever as one of hers. Robb feels like he's being sold into slavery. And he _likes_ that.

Just before ink hits the paper, however, she hesitates. “I should warn you though,” she says, “it might not all be what you imagine. It's not all a little cheeky cocksucking where they can't even touch you. Sometimes the men will want you to do things that will hurt you. Things that will scare you. Things you won't like. Are you sure you really know what you're getting yourself into?”

Robb bites his lip. He sees things he can't quite remember and smells – smoke? “No, not really,” he admits. She frowns. “Mayhaps you should test me.”

“Test you?”

It is at this point Robb knows he truly has gone mad.

“Mayhaps... you should set me up for one of those things. Something that will hurt me, scare me, something I might not like.” _Oh, but how I like it when I'm hurt and scared._ “Maybe you should see whether I'm ready before you take me on.”

There's a pause while she considers his offer. Then, Lya breaks into a grin.

“Oh, you sweet little thing,” she says. “I don't pay Ros anywhere near enough.” 

* * *

Robb is nervous.

He does not know if he should be – alright, yes, he should be, but how much so? He's been given time to prepare himself, physically at least. He thinks he's spent the last hour up in one of the spare rooms, getting himself ready, with oil and his fingers and a whole range of objects like the one Ros once gave him, but bigger, harder, made of all sorts of things. And oh, how he enjoyed that. How he lay there and thought about what it would be like once he could have this many cocks in his arse instead. It was so hard not to just let himself come from it, but he knew he shouldn't, knew he was waiting for something. This is not for him.

Lya stopped by to check his work, just slipped two fingers into him without warning. Robb yelped, but didn't protest. There was something humiliating about it, and she grinned when she felt just how loose he was. “Oh, sweet lordling,” she cooed. “I don't know what I've ever done for the gods to deserve you.”

The whores – well, the other whores – all turn to look at him while he makes his way through the halls, and Robb blushes. He sees that Cass glaring at him, angry. That doesn't surprise him, although he still doesn't understand it – she's been giving him dirty looks since he got here. He thinks she's mad about how he and Ros used her in their little scheme, but he doesn't know why – if he likes her job so much and she clearly doesn't, why not let him do it instead?

The thought abates as he finally reaches the room he was instructed to go to. He hesitates. Should he knock? But they're waiting for him, and it's hardly like he'll catch them doing anything he won't see later. So he swings the door open, and readies himself to meet his first client.

Well, 'client' was his first mistake. Because there's not one man there, there's six of them, and Robb blinks to process the fact. _Why is it always six?_ They all stare as he steps in, eyes running over him like they want to eat him. Robb is already painfully hard. Some of them laugh at the sight of him. Some whistle. Some just smile.

The man who speaks first is in the latter category. “Oh, look at you,” he says. “Still worried we were too cheap and they were going to slag us with one of the ugly ones, Luke?”

“Fuck off,” says another man, this Luke, and then a third man scoffs.

“Doesn't matter what he looks like anyway. Not once we're done with him.”

Robb gulps. _Seven hells, what have I gotten myself into?_ The first man laughs. “Now now, don't frighten the poor boy.” Robb closes the door and steps a little further inside. “That's right, sweetling. Why don't you take off your clothes and come a little closer?”

He's not had to do that before. He's always sucked men off with just his breeches open wide enough to touch himself, or that one time he tore them down so Theon could– but he does as he's told, hands shaking as he unlaces his jerkin, and pulls his tunic off in a rush. The first man grins at the sight of his bare skin, and he takes his breeches away quickly too, offering himself for their appraisal. This man clearly loves the sight of him, and he spreads his legs wide, letting Robb see the obscene bulge there. Robb feels so hot.

“Still think we should have gotten a girl,” mutters a fourth man.

The first one sighs. “Yes, well you were outvoted!” Robb suspects they've had this argument before. Then the man's attention turns back to him, and he takes a moment to evaluate this man in turn. He doesn't look like he expected – which is strange, since Robb didn't think he had any expectations. No, for some reason he thought this man would have blue eyes. But he's brown all over, burnt hair and cocoa eyes and sun-baked skin. Robb tries to think of someone he's met he looks like, and fails. He's tall and willowy and softly intimidating. A very handsome man, in a way.

The man pats his knee, inviting Robb over. Robb blushes, but goes eagerly.

 _I'm too heavy for this,_ he thinks as he tries to settle into position. _I don't want to break my first customer's leg._

The man doesn't complain however, wrapping an arm around Robb's waist to keep him steady. “What a pretty thing you are,” he whispers, like he can't quite believe it. “Honestly, Lya gave us a bargain. I would have charged three times that for the likes of you.”

Robb is so red, but he can't help himself, he moans softly as he squirms in place – and then loudly as this man's hand brushes his cock.

The man chuckles. “And eager too,” he says. Then he sighs. “Honestly, it's almost a shame we're going to wreck you so.” Robb shudders at that. _Oh gods, yes, wreck me._ “But no matter. Do you think you'll be even prettier then, crying and covered in come, your arse all loose and red?”

“I – I don't know my lord.” Robb can barely think straight, but he hears them all chuckle at his terms of address. None of them are lords, he realises, but it's habit. Then the man pinches his nipple, hard. Robb whimpers. “Please.”

“Oh, a _polite_ pretty thing too,” says the man. “Are you going to be so polite when you beg for my cock inside you?”

A fifth man scoffs. “Any whore would do that.”

“Was I talking to you?”

Gods, Robb's so hot. He looks around the room and meets these men's eager, wanting glances, and can't wait to be spread open for all of them. _My first time, with six men, fucking me in every hole and leaving me a mess. Gods, Mother, what would you think_?

“Tell me, sweetling: what's your name?”

The third man scoffs. “Does it matter? He won't remember it in five minutes.”

“Then we'd better learn it now.”

Robb groans, and almost lets his name slip out. _Even the lowborn girls don't give me their real names, it's not safe._ In a panic, he blurts the first name that comes to mind, again: “Doran.”

The Prince of Dorne? Why? The man seems equally bemused.. “You don't look much like a Dornishman,” he says. “Don't sound much like one either.”

Robb flushes. “My father is Northern, I was raised in the North, since I was a babe,” he says. “But I was born in the South.”

That is true, but it makes him flinch regardless. _Jon._ Jon might have been born in Dorne, although no-one can be sure – it's all as unclear as everything else about Jon's birth. Robb doesn't even know if Jon's older or younger than him.

“I suppose it's all the same to me,” says the man, closing his hand over Robb's prick yet again. “North or South, a good cocksucker is universal. Though I do wonder which half gave you those cheekbones just right for it.”

 _South. They're Tully cheekbones, and I don't know they ever did this before me._ “Do you–” Robb is gasping, writhing in this man's lap, and the other men are looking at him, starting to touch themselves idly, starting to get impatient. For a second of madness, Robb thinks there aren't enough of them. He wants there to be more, so many men he'll never be done fucking them. It'll never stop. “Do you want me to show you how good I am?”

The man chuckles, then slaps Robb's arse teasingly. Robb jumps. “Maybe in a little while, sweetling,” he says, and the men start to groan with irritation. “But first of all, how about you show us just how happy you are to be here?”

Oh. He looks around, and none of the other men look very happy with this plan, even if they aren't saying so. That is a problem with having multiple men at once he didn't anticipate – if one man wants him to do one thing and one man wants him to do another, whose orders should he follow? Whose whore should he be?

 _Well,_ he reasons, _it's not like it'll take very long._

Indeed it doesn't; the man lets go so Robb can close his hand around himself instead, and like this, naked in a man's lap and shown off for all to see, stared at with frustrated lust by so many men, men who are just waiting for the chance to tear him apart, Robb is mewling and trembling on the edge of orgasm within moments.

The first man chuckles at his desperation. “See, that's the thing about boys, you can always tell just how much the little slut likes it,” he says, giving Robb's arse a cruel pinch. “They can't play-act coming like women can. And this one, this one loves it. This one's about to make himself spill just thinking about all the ways we're going to fuck him.”

“Erryl, you realise we could be fucking him and making him come like that right now, right?”

The fourth man, with fire in his eyes, no longer seems to care that Robb's not a girl. _Erryl._ Robb doesn't recognise the name, and something about that is strangely disappointing, although he can't say why (mayhaps he just wants to see this man again). Erryl laughs. “Of course I do, Holt. But you don't want to spoil the slut, do you? Not when he's so clearly gagging for it.” Just to emphasise his point, he slips two fingers into Robb's mouth, laughing as Robb sucks them by instinct. “No, when he gets my cock, I want him weak and mewling, crying and barely able to speak, but whispering _thank you, thank you._ ”

Robb spills with a cry, splashing all over this man's legs. He feels a little guilty for dirtying Erryl's breeches, but they look pretty cheap, and he doesn't seem to mind. He pops his fingers out of Robb's mouth and scoops up some of his come, offers it to his lips.

He flushes, meeting eyes with these men across the room. _I want it so much. I want them to know what I am._ Greedily, eagerly, he starts licking up his own seed, the seed that could have birthed another Stark heir, and lets a soft moan slip between his lips as he does so. The third man's eyes narrow in anger as much as lust. _Yes, my lord. And how hard will you fuck me for being such a stupid, selfish slut?_

Suddenly Erryl throws him from his lap, and Robb falls to the ground, barely avoiding breaking a wrist. He looks up, shocked, and those cocoa eyes just glint at him. “Well go on,” he says. “Show these nice men what a good cocksucker you really are.”

The second man – Luke – grunts _f_ _inally._ Robb bites his lip and goes crawling on his hands and knees to the first man he can reach.

It's the fourth man, Holt, who's legs Robb finds himself settled between, as Holt's thigh starts to twitch with eagerness. Mayhaps a little teasing, Robb unlaces him slowly, then he takes him out with a sure hand, and with a firm stroke lets him feel the callouses on his palms from years of sword practice. Then he presses the man's prick against his cheek, rubbing it against his auburn stubble. The man just laughs.

“Cheeky fuck,” he says, then grabs Robb by the hair and waits for him to open his mouth, so he can thrust in.

 _Oh yes, just like that,_ Robb thinks as he gags around a good cock. He had been worried, when he realised he'd finally be getting fucked in the arse, that he'd have to give up being fucked in the mouth in return. A stupid worry. _I'm the best cocksucker in the brothel, everyone says so._ He knows it should not make him proud.

He doesn't get to serve the fourth man very long before he's pulled off, and the fifth man grabs him by the hair and steals him for himself.

“I was enjoying that,” Holt pouts. He shuts up soon enough as Robb wraps a hand around him in apology, trying to keep pace with the way he bobs his head. Not once does he complain about the callouses.

“I know, that's why I did it,” the fifth man grins, and Robb wants to roll his eyes. It's like listening to Jon and Theon again.

(He needs to not think about Jon. Jon looks so much like Father.)

“Is he that good? You need to bicker like children over him?”

“Why don't you come find out?” asks the fifth man, teasing, and Eryll chuckles to himself.

“Maybe later.”

Robb moans before he decides to switch back to Holt, using his hand on the fifth man instead. Holt is longer, but the fifth man's thicker, and he likes them both really. _Mayhaps if I tried I could fit them both at once._ That thought still manages to make him blush. He feels dirty, greedy, shameless, he ought to stop but he never can, he's–

“Disgusting,” comes a hiss in his ear and yes, that's it exactly. Robb realises the third man is behind him, teasing his arse with his cock, and gods, _the first man I'll ever have like this, he hates me, I repel him but he still wants to fuck me, I don't even know his name–_ “Don't you have a family, boy? Gods. Look at you, on your knees for three cocks at once. Don't you have a mother, a father? What would they say if they saw you like this?”

Robb has to close his eyes. _Oh, if only you knew the family I had_. But after all, they'll never see this; they're all in King's Landing, or on the Wall, or in the Vale apparently (Mother should be back by now). They'd hate him, hate him as much as this man does, and he knows he should stop, even the man about to fuck him knows he should stop, but it's too late now – Robb has sold himself over and over and over again, sold his father's fever and his mother's cheekbones and his name, the name Father's father gave him and the name Mother gave him when she bore him with hours of pain and after she looked at his little red face and smiled, and he sold it all to pay for something – for something–

The man shoves in roughly and Robb stops, gags, cries out. Despite all that oil and how much time he spent getting ready it _hurts_ , and Robb doesn't mind, Robb's always liked it when it hurts. “Shut up,” the man says, slapping his arse again, and Robb does his best, letting Holt deeper down his throat just to muffle himself. The man groans in his ear. “You're tighter than I expected, though,” he concedes. “Thought you would have had so many cocks up your arse I wouldn't feel a thing.”

 _You're my first,_  Robb thinks but no, he doesn't want this man to know that. He wants to be the cheap whore this man thinks he is. So instead he just buries his head in another man's lap while he bucks toward the cock plowing him open, and gods it's good, the man doesn't wait for him to adjust he just fucks him rough and hard and lets his knees bruise on the floor, he can hear the man in his mouth moaning and–

There's a splash on his shoulder, Robb blinks in surprise, and realises the man in his hand has just come. The man in his mouth is laughing.

“Oh shut up,” snaps the fifth man, red and embarrassed (well, Robb can relate). “He's good with his hands!”

“He's good with his mouth too, he's famous for it, and yet here I am just fine!”

The fifth man flushes deeper as he softens in Robb's palm, and Robb takes pity on him. _You do what the client wants._

Viciously, with purpose, he hollows his cheeks around Holt's cock.

“Oh!” Holt cries out and Robb chuckles as he takes him right to the back of his throat. He's still gagging, he always does but it barely matters, he just bobs his head faster, fucking his own throat on this man's cock, and the third man helps – still brutally thrusting into Robb from behind, digging nails into his hips like he wants to leave a mark and let everyone know just how much he despises the slut he's about to finish in, and Robb just lets it wash over him. It's like he doesn't have a mind anymore, or not one any more sophisticated than a rat's or a dog's (or a wolf's), not one capable of anything more complicated than _make this man come in me._

And come Holt does; Robb feels him shudder a moment beforehand and pulls back, wrapping a hand around it so the man can spill all over his face. _Gods help me, I like it so much when they spill on my face_.

Holt moans, helpless as Robb wrings release from him. Robb feels oddly powerful, just for a moment. He must look disgusting. Holt gets his breath back, and chuckles. “Very cheeky. Someone ought to put you in your place.”

 _Seven hells please._ Robb barely gets time to process that thought before the third man, still balls-deep inside him, snarls and seizes him by the hair, making him whimper with pain. “Oh, are you proud of yourself you little cunt?!” he spits, saliva mingling with seed on Robb's face. “Are you proud you've sucked so many cocks you know just how to do it, how to make a man come all over you in a second? Well, I guess it's the only thing you're good for.”

 _Gods yes, I'm just a hole for your cock._ He's shoved down, face colliding with the stone floor and he can only hope his nose doesn't bleed. “Look at you. You're a worthless piece of shit.” Robb can't quite keep from saying _yes_ , but smothered against smooth masonry it comes out as just another moan. “I'll show you exactly what you're meant for.”

It's even rougher like this, and even with all the oil Robb fears he might tear, but he doesn't want it to stop, not for a second. Robb starts to sob in pain or pleasure, he cannot tell the difference anymore and perhaps there was never any difference in the first place. This man really does hate him, and Robb knows he should not love that so, but he cannot help it when it gets him fucked so hard, gets bruises on his hips and scars on his back, little marks that he could show off and let everyone know precisely what he's been doing, just like the seed on his face. He never will of course, but gods – the looks on their faces–

This man finishes inside him with a final shove and another slap to his arse, and Robb can feel it leaking out of him already. “Slut,” the man grunts and tears away, like now he's done he can't wait to be as far away from Robb as possible.

For a long, agonising moment he's just left there, face down on his knees, sobbing and as hard as the floor beneath him. _Why aren't you taking me?_ he wonders, and then he's terrified when he thinks it might be because they think he doesn't like it. So with a trembling hand, he reaches behind himself and starts playing with his hole, with the third man's come, and he flinches at how sore he is but he'll be more so soon, if he's lucky.

It's another agonising moment before he feels a hand close gently around his wrist. “Now that's really not necessary,” comes a voice and from the smirk in it, Robb knows that's Erryl. “Roll over for me. I want to see if you look as good as I think you do.”

Robb does just that, and Erryl's grin looks anything but disappointed. “Well, Tom was half-right,” he says, and Robb blinks, but he guesses that's the third man's name. “You're a piece of shit alright, and for anything but this, you'd be worthless.” _That's right, worthless as a lord, worthless as a brother, worthless as a son, but as–_ “But as a whore? Oh, sweetling. You're worth so much Tywin Lannister couldn't pay a fair price.”

He moans as Erryl reaches for his legs and spreads them, wrapping them around his waist. Then he gives Robb a very odd look.

“Do you trust me?”

That catches Robb off-guard. _Why would you ask me that?_ He can barely speak, so it takes him awhile to answer. “I barely know you,” he says, honest and coming back to himself, a little. He flinches as he doesn't quite remember something. _Do you trust me, Your Grace?_

Erryl grins wider at him. “Quite right too. And yet, you'd do anything for me to fuck you, wouldn't you?” Robb moans and nods. “You'd let me do anything to you.”

 _Yes, isn't that obvious?_ The man smirks and leans down to whisper in his ear:

“Prove it.”

And like that, there's a hand around Robb's throat.

Robb gasps, which is a mistake because when he does that Erryl only squeezes tighter, and the pressure _hurts_ , enough that Robb starts clawing, but not at the hand choking him. He can feel the air drifting away from him, the blackness in his eyes obscuring the man's grinning face, but there's something just so _nice_ about it that Robb can't honestly say he wants it to stop. It's like he's flying, or dying, or something but it's so unlike–

“Gods, Erryl, try not to kill him!”

The hand releases and Robb gasps for air, helpless. He sees Erryl looking over his shoulder and raising an eyebrow. “Alright,” he says. Then he smirks teasingly. “Or at least I'll let you have your turn first.”

It's the second man he's talking to, Luke, and Robb's head swims as Erryl climbs off him. _You saved my life,_ he thinks and he doesn't really know if Luke deserves a reward for that, or it's the come and cock and lack of air that have addled his brain, but either way he's on his knees and squirming forward to take this man in his mouth.

“Fuck,” Luke grunts but he's not so rough as the others, not so eager either. He just lets Robb work. And work he does, as well as he can, sucking every inch of Luke he can manage and running his hands over everything he can't. It's nice, like this, and before long it's at the back of his throat again but he's not gagging this time, no, he's learnt how to handle it, he's learnt how to suck cock like a real whore. Erryl is laughing.

“See, you don't need to worry so much. This one likes cock in his mouth more than air in his lungs anyway.”

Robb whimpers as he pulls back. _Gods, they really might kill me._ The thought terrifies him, but it doesn't make him stop, and at this point he thinks nothing ever will, nothing ever could. _What is wrong with me?_ he wonders, shame starting to break through his lustful haze. _How can I possibly want this? And how can I want it so badly?_

Luke comes down his throat and Robb swallows it all effortlessly. He then opens his mouth, just to prove he did, just to prove how good he is. Luke hesitates a moment, then leans over, and spits between his lips.

Robb moans.

He hears Erryl chuckling again as he winds his way around Robb's back. Robb shudders. “Oh? Are you afraid of me, pretty one?” _Yes, and it only makes me want you more._ “Don't worry, I won't take it personally. It happens a lot. Tell you what, you be good for me, sweetling, just lie on your back and let me have my way, and I promise I'll be very gentle with you. See, some of us have self-control.”

If Robb had self-control, he'd punch Erryl in his smug face and storm out, back to Winterfell where he could forget this hideous, shameful, wonderful nightmare ever happened. Instead, he does as he's told, laying on the stone cold floor so this man who terrifies him can get between his legs. For the first time, Robb realises there's a bed in the room. But he doubts anyone has any interest in moving him to it.

Erryl is still chuckling as he presses his cock to Robb's sore entrance, tracing and teasing. “Such a needy little slut,” he mutters. “Might have to come back for you, just on my own. See if I can make you look like this without help. Would you like that?”

Robb groans and nods. _I would. I might not make it out alive, but I'd like it up until that point._

Erryl's cock finally slides inside him. Robb frowns. It's smaller than he expected.

Once he starts moving however, Robb decides it doesn't matter. “You know, you really are very pretty,” he comments idly. “Your eyes and hair and cheekbones, yes, they're all lovely, but you were born with those. But you, you take care of yourself – those tousled curls, that soft skin, those lovely firm muscles. Can't have gone hungry a day in your life, can you? But you didn't cost all that much.”

The worry settling in Robb's gut only makes him moan louder. He doesn't know entirely what Erryl's getting at, but he has some idea.

“You see, the girls here, they say you're highborn. A precious little lord, whoring himself out just for the fun of it.” He laughs like he's never heard anything so absurd in his life. “And you gave us a prince's name, after all. But, while you're pretty, you don't look like a lordling to me. Or a princeling. Not with your face all full of come like that. Tell me, little Doran: are you a princeling? Or a lordling?”

Robb groans and shakes his head. “No.” _Not a lordling anymore, I am the Stark in Winterfell, and yet I'd much rather be here._

“Then what are you?”

 _A whore_ , he assumes Erryl wants him to say. But no, that doesn't quite do it justice. He moans, and leans up to whisper it in Erryl's ear.

“A hole,” he says, and then smiles. “Nothing but a hole for your cock.”

“Oh, you are _priceless_.”

And then Robb comes, suddenly struck just right by this awful man and his not particularly extraordinary cock. The feel of that is too much for Erryl, apparently, and he gives a strange half-moan, half-chuckle as he spills, slow and lazy like he has something better to do.

Robb sighs and shudders as he comes off his peak, and with a blush realises he spilled all over Erryl. The man just raises an eyebrow at him. “Would you like to help me clean this up, sweetling?”

Yes, he would. And so Robb lets this man pull him to his knees, so he can lick his own come off a cheap cotton shirt. _He never even got undressed,_ Robb thinks with a blissful shudder. _None of them did. It's my body that's there to be looked at, not theirs._

Robb is groaning by the time he finishes, and looks up at Erryl with a smile. Those cocoa eyes smile back.

“Now roll over, pretty one,” he says. “This will be easier if you just lie there.”

Robb blinks, but does as he's told. Whatever the client wants.

Then it's just a free-for-all; Robb doesn't bother trying to keep track of who's fucking him, if they're coming for the first time or having seconds or even thirds (although he's fairly sure Holt and his sparring partner both get to finish in his arse, bickering all the while). When Robb comes a third time, it's weak and plaintive, and no-one even notices. He barely notices. It's like he really is just a hole for cock, lying there while the big men, the important men, the men who matter use him for their pleasure. No-one says anything to him until the very end, when he hears a voice he hasn't heard before. The sixth man, it must be. “Whore,” he mutters in Robb's ear.

Which frankly, seems a little redundant.

Then it's over, and Robb doesn't bother to get up while they collect themselves, laughing and chatting like this was nothing out of the ordinary for them at all. Mayhaps it isn't. Someone throws his payment somewhere near his head, but Robb doesn't bother to look at it either.

Once he's alone, he lets out a deep sigh. He's never felt like this before. Not even on his filthiest nights behind the wall, not even that time with Theon in the forest, he's never felt like he didn't even _exist_. It's the purest bliss Robb's ever known, and he knows he'll never be able to give it up.

 _Father will be fine,_ he thinks, his head swimming. _He'll come back, now it's clear he's not safe in King's Landing. The Lannisters won't get him though. They never will. He's the strongest man I've ever known, far stronger than me._

And just before Robb sinks into the oblivion of unconsciousness, he smiles. 

* * *

There is a wolf in the woods. It should be out hunting, preying, after the scent of blood, but it isn't. Instead it just rolls on its back like a helpless pup, bathing in summer sun.

It makes Robb think of picnicking with his family out in these forests, with his mother and father, his brothers and sisters, Theon, and Jon, although he has no idea how they got his mother to agree to that. There's cheese and meat to share, and wine for him, Jon and Theon, and Mother and Father, and a little for Sansa, who says she doesn't want any but then stares so curiously even Mother gets sick of it and decides it's worth the risk of making her ill. Robb falls asleep and Theon teases him, but it doesn't matter, not really. He's just so happy here.

“Robb, wake up,” he feels someone shaking him. Little Bran. “Robb, we'll be late for my archery lesson. Robb, you promised you'd help me. Robb!”

Robb groans and brushes him off, smiling all the while. They won't be late, not really. He just needs to close his eyes a little longer. He can stay a little longer. But the shaking doesn't stop.

“Shit! Wake up! Shit, shit, shit, wake up! Oh, Lya's really done it this time, I'm going to fucking kill her, fuck, wake up!”

Robb opens his eyes. He remembers where he is, on the cold stone floor of a cheap brothel, having been fucked and left for dead by six men. There's a girl above him with a look of terrified fury on her face, dark-haired and pudgy with breasts that could stun an elephant. Cass.

He should say something, but the sigh of relief she gives when she sees his eyes open is enough. It's not really necessary. “Oh, thank the gods,” she says. “I thought they'd actually fucking killed you.”

Robb blinks, head still swimming. “What's it to you?” he asks, more curious than accusing. “You don't like me. I've seen the way you've glared at me all day.”

That just makes her glare again, more vicious this time. “You're right, I don't like you. And I don't like some highborn slut with nothing better to do getting the coppers I needed.” Robb frowns. Well, he supposes 'highborn slut' is fair. “When I thought Ros was just low on money but too proud to admit it, that was different. But–” she lets out a long sigh, “–if Lya lets you die on us, then we'll all be in a lot of trouble. A lot more trouble than, frankly, you're fucking worth.”

Robb's not really following, but he slowly pulls himself up, groaning at the ache all through his body. Gods, what did they do to him?

Cass' eyes narrow. “Seriously, if we have to send for a Maester, now is the time to mention it.”

Robb shakes his head. “No, I – I feel fine.” Gingerly, he raises a hand to his neck, feeling where Erryl choked him. That will bruise, although he probably owns enough high-necked shirts to hide it. It should have scared him when that happened, and it did, but it made him feel so – powerless. Relying on a stranger's mercy just to breathe. The thought makes him moan, long and low and shameless. “I feel good,” he whispers, and then he sees Cass is still glaring.

He suddenly realises she hates him.

 _I'm a whore, I can hardly hate you for wanting to be one,_ Ros once told him, but Robb now realises that wasn't true. Because Cass, she doesn't want to be one. She only does it for the money, because she needs the money, like most whores. But the things she has to do – the things that hurt her, the things that scare her – she doesn't like them at all. She hates the fact she has to submit to such awful things just to live.

And she hates him, because he doesn't have to. He does it just because he likes it. She hates him because he comes here wanting all the things she dreads the most.

“Gods help me,” he chokes, shuddering under the weight of her contempt. “I feel so good.”


	8. name badge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb is angry with Theon.
> 
> Robb doesn't know why he's angry with Theon, and this fact only makes him angrier. Is it about what happened in that forest? But it can't be, not when Robb loved that so much, not when it made him come so hard he thought he was dying. Not when Theon only did what he wanted. But it could have killed him, he remembers, that fever was vicious (and those dreams scared him so) and what would have happened then? To Winterfell, to the North, to Bran and Rickon?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, bit of a short, transitional chapter again. Also I decided to use the show continuity version of the Wildling-attempted-kidnap incident rather than the book one, just because it suited my purposes better. Although I also shuffled around the show continuity a bit so Ros leaving for KL happens before that, rather than after. But that's such a small detail that I don't think anyone would notice if I didn't bring it up. So why am I bringing it up? Idk I don't think these things through brilliantly.

The name thing becomes a habit of his. He never tells the other whores his name, so they just take to calling him _m'lord_ , which he doesn't mind even if he's fairly sure he's not the only highborn there (he's not the only one Cass is constantly glaring at). With the clients, however, he uses a different name every time and they never think to question him. Lya praises him for that, tells him it's a good idea, for safety's sake. Although Robb thinks which names he gives is a little less smart.

He's Renly, Lord Paramount of Storm's End and the king's own brother, to a man who ties him to the bed, sucks him off and rides his face. Robb is surprised when he feels a warm mouth close around his cock, but it feels too good to resist, and he keens into the ropes and lets them bite at his skin. The man is practiced, Robb can tell he is, and he swallows Robb whole with little more than a merry chuckle.

For all the times he's done this Robb's never had it done to him, and so it doesn't last very long. The man laughs, but not in a humiliating way. “Good boy,” he murmurs as he gracefully spits Robb's seed into a hankerchief.

When the man crawls up to sit over Robb's mouth, Robb thinks he's being asked to return the favour, and is very eager to do so. So he's surprised when the man catches him with his lips pressed to the head of his cock, shakes his head, and moves just a little bit further up.

Robb blushes at the thought. He knows what he's being asked to do, thanks to all Theon's filthy stories, but still. _But it's dirty_ , he wants to protest, but really why exactly would this be where he draws the line? So he does as he's told, he licks this man out wet and eager, listens to him moan and writhe and beg at the touch of Robb's tongue. He's heavy, Robb can't breathe quite right, but not so heavy he ever gets truly scared and it's nice. By the time the man comes, Robb's half-hard again.

Seed gets all through his hair and Robb will have to wash it out before he returns to Winterfell. The man doesn't bother to deal with Robb's hardness again, he just leaves a coin on the bedside table and unhurriedly unties him. He smiles when he sees the bloody mess he's made of Robb's wrists. 

* * *

Robb is angry with Theon.

Robb doesn't know _why_ he's angry with Theon, and this fact only makes him angrier. Is it about what happened in that forest? But it can't be, not when Robb loved that so much, not when it made him come so hard he thought he was dying. Not when Theon only did what he wanted. But it could have killed him, he remembers, that fever was vicious (and those dreams scared him so) and what would have happened then? To Winterfell, to the North, to Bran and Rickon?

Theon doesn't really notice, smiling and japing constantly like usual. Whenever Robb snaps at him, he just smirks and shrugs it off. That sometimes makes Robb angrier, but it sometimes reassures him as well. He needs something to not be changing all the time. He has to know someone here isn't losing their damn mind.

They still haven't talked about what happened in the forest. Robb tried once, although he had no idea what to say, could barely get a few words out through his blush before Theon just chuckled at him. “Not really the sort of thing that needs a lot of talking about,” he said, and Robb stopped. What could he say to that?

Then Rickon came in demanding someone help him take Shaggydog up to the high towers to watch the stars with him (why would a wolf want to watch the stars?), and the moment was lost.

Theon's very good with Bran and Rickon, he has been since everyone else left. Robb knows it surprised everybody, that they thought they would have to deal with selfish Theon Greyjoy constantly whining about how he hates looking after useless whelps and he's no woman. And sometimes Theon does whine like that, but only to Robb, and Robb knows he doesn't mean it. Every time one of the boys comes running to Theon, with a scratched knee or a worried thought about Father or just some childlike task they need help with, Theon is perfect. Theon's still _Theon_ , all cocky jokes and innuendo that sails right over Bran and Rickon's heads, but he's never mean to them. Never even brusque. He pulls them close, ruffles their hair, helps them with whatever they need. He tells them everything is going to be alright, and most of the time, they seem to believe him.

Perhaps _that's_ why Robb's so angry. He's angry Theon knows just how to deal with his little brothers, when Robb can barely look at them some days (he's too afraid they'll see his bruises, his bitemarks, the last traces of come on his face). When he tells Bran and Rickon everything's going to be alright, they never seem to believe him.

Sometimes, when Bran and Rickon run off to do whatever it is children that young do in an abandoned castle, Robb sees Theon just watch them as they go. And he smiles. Not the toothy grin he wears at all hours for all occasions, but something different, something soft and gentle and honest.

He's enjoying himself, Robb realises. He likes this. He likes being their substitute brother, or father, or mother, or whatever it is they see him as.

(Perhaps that's making Robb angry too.)

One night the chicken doesn't come from the kitchens fully cooked. Robb's not mad, he knows the servants have been under a lot of pressure lately (he still needs to hire a new steward) – but he thinks they should just send it back to the kitchens for more time. Theon laughs and says no, this is an opportunity. He's going to teach them how to cook over the hearth.

Robb tells him he's being an idiot, that he'll burn the whole castle down, but Theon just shakes his head and whines at Bran and Rickon that Robb used to be fun. Robb gulps ( _don't you remember how fun I can be, Theon?_ ). They stare, transfixed, and Theon laps up their attention.

Robb looks on, sees his little brothers and Theon's grinning face, and smells smoke. His heart races. 

* * *

He's Mace, Lord Paramount of the Reach and a man Robb knows next to nothing about, to a man who never touches him, who just watches while Robb moans and writhes and touches himself.

“Please, my lord,” he begs while spreading his hole wide with four fingers. He's been told to do that, that his customer likes them desperate, but it's hardly something he has to fake. Robb is desperate, Robb is _always_ desperate. He thinks that's why this man chose him, he came recommended. He moans as he shoves his fingers in deeper, not enough, it'll never be enough but he doesn't think this man will give him what he really needs. “ _Please_.”

He hears the man gasp as he strokes himself quicker. Robb whimpers at the sound. “Please, just fuck me,” he begs, and he'd do anything for it but that's not what this man wants. He does what the client wants. He doesn't know why this man holds back; he can't fear begetting a bastard, so mayhaps it's some strange sense of honour that will let him buy a whore but not actually fuck one. Or mayhaps he just thinks Robb might have the pox.

Robb doesn't even get to come before he hears the man groan and spill in his own palm. Robb is still sobbing, begging, lost to the world, but his client doesn't stick around to watch him finish. He just puts himself away with a flush of shame, as if Robb is some stain on his honour.

However he's one of the few who passes his coin right from his hand to Robb's own, and just before he leaves, he leans over and kisses Robb softly on the brow. That's so nice it's almost as good as coming itself. 

* * *

Theon is upset about something.

Theon never gives much away when he's upset, but Robb knows him well and if anyone can pick it up, it's him. Theon laughs a little too loud, he grins a little too wide, he drinks a little too much at dinner. Robb waits until Bran and Rickon are well and tucked in their beds, he's about to return to his chambers himself (and probably leave again in a few hours) before he stops Theon and asks what's going on.

“It's nothing,” Theon tells him, not bothering to lie. “It's stupid.”

Robb just raises an eyebrow, and waits for Theon to explain.

He sighs. “Ros has gone to King's Landing. Barely even said goodbye.”

Robb blinks. He didn't realise Theon would care so much, and yet clearly he does, clearly he was very fond of her. Robb always _knew_ he was fond of her, but maybe not that much, not so much that losing her would actually hurt him. It's so rare anything seems to hurt Theon at all.

It hurts Robb too. He knows it shouldn't, and he has no right to feel betrayed. Ros was just a kind prostitute who took pity on him and his sick desires. He barely even knew her. She owed him nothing, she did not abandon him.

And yet, and yet. _She could have at least said goodbye._

“Oh,” Robb says, dumb. He has no idea how he's meant to make Theon feel better. 

* * *

He's Hoster, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands and gods forgive him, his own grandfather, to a man who beats him with his belt and forces his entire fist inside him.

It hurts, as he hears his skin smacked and abused, reddened, welts spreading their way over his whole body, and he tears open once or twice. _Gods, what will I say to Maester Luwin?_ Robb wails with pain the whole time, and the man seems to enjoy that, it only makes him beat Robb harder. Mayhaps that's why Robb does it. _How can I want this? And how can I want it so badly?_

Robb is a wreck by the time he's pulled up onto the bed and the man starts elaborating his plan. Robb thinks it will never work, it's just not possible, but he knows better than to try and say no. He doesn't want to say no. It hurts, but the man goes slowly, even if at every finger Robb thinks he's about to tear and bleed to death right here. But that never happens. The man seems to know what he's doing, and he must do it a lot. Robb is a snivelling, sobbing mess by the time the man's whole hand makes it's way inside him.

But when it does, oh, when it does. It still hurts, but Robb likes it so much when it hurts, and he never knew he could feel this full. It's like there's no room left in him for anything anymore, not his worries about his father, not his fear of his mother's eyes, not his need to be the perfect brother for Bran and Rickon when he has no idea how, nothing. Robb can still feel the red marks throbbing on his back and he decides he loves this man, this man who's abused him so thoroughly, he'd do anything for him if only he could feel like this all the time.

When the man pulls his fist out so he can finish up inside Robb, it's a little anticlimactic. He has to slip two fingers in alongside to even make it worthwhile.

The shame comes quickly that night, and for a moment Robb just lies there, with his back bloody and his arse so stretched he won't sit right for a week, wearing his mother's father's name. He cries then. He wonders what's wrong with him, how he can let such men do such awful things to him, how he can whine and moan for them to do it more, why he keeps coming back to be used and abused like this. He feels sick, broken, dirty and wrong.

He does not fool himself into thinking he will stop. 

* * *

Bran's saddle is finally ready – the saddle made by the brother of the man who struck down Father – and he, Robb and Theon go to the forest to try it out. Robb blushes and feels a little sick at the thought of taking Bran here, given what he and Theon did in this forest, but Theon never even seems to think of it, just smiles as helps strap Bran in and tells him what a proper little knight he looks. Robb expects Bran to flinch at the reminder of what he can never be, but he doesn't, he smiles too. _Why can Theon make my brother smile when I can't?_

He's still half afraid the ride will throw Bran from his horse and kill him, but no, and before long Bran is wild and whooping with joy. It's a painful sort of happiness Robb feels then. He's not heard Bran sound like that in months. He's not heard anyone sound like that in months.

(The sounds the men he works for make are really not the same.)

Then, for the first time in his fucking life, Theon decides he wants to have a serious conversation.

“You have to make the Lannisters pay for Jory and the others.”

_Do I? Do I have to do that? Should I get onto that once I've hired a new steward, paid all the servants, made sure our crops won't fail through the winter, kept you hostage so your father won't kill us all and probably made Bran walk again too?_

“Only the Lord of Winterfell can call in the bannermen,” because he's not the Lord of Winterfell, not really, he's the closest thing they have but an army with him at the head of it, it makes him laugh (he dreamed of an army once, and himself beneath it, and the look on Father's face).

Theon doesn't let it go, why won't he let it go? Isn't that what Theon's like, feckless and irresponsible, a bad influence? _Yes, a very bad influence_. It's not fair, after everything Theon's done to him, everything he knows Robb is, he can't just turn around and pretend like he doesn't know, pretend like he thinks Robb is the perfect little lordling he pretends to be (that he was always just pretending to be). But there he is, talking about Robb taking them to war like he thinks he's capable of it, like he doesn't know what role whores play during war.

“You're not a boy anymore!”

 _Am I a man though?_ What man would do what Robb does, would allow other men to do the things Robb lets them do, what man would come crawling back soaked with seed and crying, whining, begging for more, begging to be nothing but a worthless slut beneath some nameless man's boot? _Father would never allow it. Gods, the look on his face–_

“It's your duty to represent your house when your father can't.”

Duty.

Robb wants to punch Theon, really he does.

 _Duty? Is that my duty?_ The rage in him is wild and inconceivable, and incomprehensible. _Was it my duty to get on my knees and suck on your cock too, Theon?_

Because this isn't Theon, this isn't what Theon's like. Theon doesn't care about all this, about Robb's House and his role at the head of it, about all the things Robb has to do and has to be, about all the things he shouldn't let himself want even when they're the only things keeping him sane (or mayhaps the things driving him mad). Family, duty, honour; none of that means anything to Theon. Robb is the one who cares about those things, cares about them enough they might kill him. Theon, Theon gives him what he needs and damn the consequences. They should be having this fight the other way around, with Robb telling Theon his great plan to save his father, because that's the honourable thing to do, that's his _duty,_ and Theon trying to talk him out of it, convincing him that they can stay here, or run away, and Theon will take care of him and fuck him so well he won't even remember his father. Robb won't have any duties other than keeping Theon's cock hard and his bed warm. And Robb would want to, gods how he'd want to, but he'd say no. At least for now.

But this, this doesn't make sense to Robb. He doesn't need this from Theon. He gets enough of this from everyone else, from the whole fucking North, from himself. How can he fight Theon when he's just telling Robb everything he already knows?

 _You're the only one, Theon,_ he thinks. _The only person who cares about_ me _more than the Lord of Winterfell._

He knows Theon's right, that's the worst of it. It is his duty to help his father, save him, become him, in time. _But what of my other duties?_ he thinks. _What of Winterfell? I can't just leave it, I promised Father I'd take care it in his place. And what about Bran and Rickon? I can't make little Bran lord in my stead, he's just a child. They're both just children, they need me. I'm all they have left._

Robb's head hurts and he's so confused and he's angry with Theon, he shouldn't be but he is, and he can't help but be cruel:

“And it's not your duty, because it's not your house.”

The hurt in his eyes is obvious and for a single, blissful second, Robb thinks Theon is going to punish him. He thinks Theon smack his little lordling face, grab him by his pretty red curls, force him to his knees. He thinks Theon will tell him that a cheap whore like him has _no_ right to speak to the heir to the Iron Islands like that. He thinks Theon will tear open his breeches and force his way down Robb's throat, like he did the last time they were here. He thinks he'll do it out in the open for everyone to see, for _Bran_ to see. He thinks his little brother will finally learn exactly what Robb really is. He thinks Bran will hate him for it, hate him so much he'll run away, just turn on that saddle Tyrion Lannister made and flee. He thinks Bran will disappear and then Robb will never have to worry about him again.

Then he thinks Theon will pull him to his feet and put him on a horse and tell him that they are _going_ to rescue his father. Because that's their duty, and Theon will do it if Robb can't. And Robb, Robb cannot possibly save his father as Lord of Winterfell, but just maybe he could manage it as Theon Greyjoy's whore.

None of that happens, and Theon just sits there in pained, sullen silence. When Robb starts to regain his wits, he feels a twinge of guilt. He shouldn't have said that. Theon is trying to help – just not the way Robb wants him to.

Before he gets the chance to apologise, he realises something. Bran really has disappeared.

He can't breathe. _No, gods no. What will I tell Mother?_ He's saying something, he has no idea what but he's saying it, and Theon is saying something back, bitter and raw and then he's walking away, _no, please come back, I'm sorry I didn't mean that I didn't mean to hurt you just help me find him I can't do it alone I shouldn't have let my feelings run away with me like that please please gods just let Bran be alright I have to take care of him–_

And then Theon is gone, and Bran is missing, and Robb is completely alone.


	9. arrowhead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn't know why he shouted like that, he can't remember what he was thinking. He's not sure he was thinking at all. He just remembers being scared, so scared it was like he was already dead. So scared of what, exactly? Of them killing Bran, obviously. Mayhaps of them killing him too. Maybe even of them killing Theon, if he turned up again (which he did).
> 
> But mayhaps, mayhaps what he was most scared of was that they wouldn't do any of those things. Mayhaps he was most scared that everything would be just fine, and then nothing would change.
> 
> Which is exactly what happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short, but actually rather important chapter this time. Also that chapter title is perhaps a too silly a pun for such an angsty fic, but whatever, I can't think of a better one.

Wildlings, Bran is surrounded by Wildlings and _why Wildlings, that doesn't make sense it's the Lannisters who want to kill him, it's the Lannisters I have to protect him from that's not fair no-one warned me about the Wildlings_ , but there's no time to think about that because Bran is there and they have their knives at him and Robb has to save him, he has no idea how but he has to, he has to, what would Mother say?

There's a sword in his hand and gods, if they only knew the things he's had in his hands but there's no time to think about that because it's a fight, he has to fight them all and there's only the one of him, but he has to because Bran, it's not fair why does he have to do it all alone, Jon should be here, Father should be here, but there's no time to think about that because someone's dead, he just killed them that should matter he should be able to let that matter but there's no time to think about that because Bran, Bran, one of the Wildlings has his knife at Bran's throat.

“Drop the blade,” he says and Bran tells him not to, Robb suddenly realises he has a woman at his feet and isn't that funny, but there's no time to think about that because Bran, gods for a second Robb just wants to let him die because he can't protect him, he can't even protect him from Wildlings let alone the Lannisters and a clean cut of the throat would be kinder than most fates, it would be kinder than what Lord Tywin would do, he remembers Rhaegar Targaryen's children but there's no time to think about that because Bran, no, what would Mother say, Robb has to protect him even if he can't, he can't, he can't.

His sword is falling and Robb is falling with it and this Wildling man doesn't know it but _I'm just a whore, I'd let anyone do it,_ yes maybe that's what will happen, maybe this man will fuck him right here with a knife at his throat, maybe they all will and then while they're distracted Bran could get away and then Robb would have saved him, he would have saved him with his whorish body and it would be one hell of a song one day but that wouldn't matter because Bran, he'd be safe and Robb, he wouldn't be the worthless slut he feels like; he'd be a slut alright, but not a worthless one.

That doesn't seem to be happening and Robb's terrified this man is just going to slit Bran's throat anyway, Robb will have to tell his mother he tried everything he could think of but it just didn't work because he wasn't good enough and now Bran is dead _–_

 _–_ But there's an arrow flying and the Wildling falls to the ground dead instead.

For the first time in a minute, an hour, a year, since the long night or so it seems, Robb breathes.

 _Theon_ , he sees him with bow in hand and he's never loved anyone more because the Wildling is dead, he shouldn't be happy any man is dead but because he is Bran is safe, Theon saved him, Robb didn't and that shouldn't matter because Bran's _safe_ but somehow it does because Robb was going to protect him but he can't, and now he knows he never will, and why can Theon protect his brother when he can't that's not fair, Theon doesn't need to protect his brother, no-one told him to, what will he tell Mother, that Theon Greyjoy is more her son than he ever was?

Theon, Theon looks so proud of killing that Wildling and Robb's never hated anyone more, but there's no time to think about that because Bran, Bran is alone on the forest floor and Robb should be looking after him.

“Are you alright?” he asks as he scoops his little brother up in his arms, gods he still remembers the day Bran was born and he nagged Mother and Father and anyone who would listen for hours until they would let him hold him, and he was such a young boy he almost dropped him but he was just so happy to have another brother, a real one he could play with without fearing his mother's scared and hateful look, and mayhaps if he never cared what Mother thought of Jon he'd still be here, mayhaps somehow they both would, but there's no time to think about that because Bran, is he alright?

He says he is, but they cut him, and he says he can't even feel it and how is that alright? But Robb just holds him closer and thinks _It's alright little brother, everything's going to be alright, I'm going to protect you, except I can't so I'll just pretend and hope for the best but you're just a child, you won't even know the difference._

“Tough little lad. In the Iron Islands you're not a man until you've killed your first enemy.” Theon sounds so fucking proud and Robb wants to claw his face off, wants to scream _well I'm not a man am I no you made sure of that and my little brother almost died because of it I didn't even notice he was gone because I was too busy thinking about you fucking my mouth and you did this to me Theon, you made me want you, you made me need you, and I can't need you I can't need anybody–_

“Have you lost your mind?” he hears himself asking and what a joke because yes, it's Theon who's lost his mind.

Then they're shouting at each other again and Robb doesn't even know why, doesn't even know what he's saying, he doesn't know why he's so angry with Theon but he is, and what would have happened if he missed, what would have happened if he hit Bran? How would he have told his mother he spent the months she was away sucking cock for the man who killed his little brother?

Mayhaps it's all a trick, mayhaps it's all a scheme, mayhaps Theon just wants to earn his trust so he can get his revenge on Lord Stark one day, and Robb will become Lord Stark one day, because why else would Theon be here, why would Theon fucking Greyjoy the boy they've kept a prisoner since he was a child still be by his side when his mother and father and brother and sisters, they wouldn't, or couldn't, or _wouldn't_ stay?

He can see the hurt in Theon's eyes and some part of him wants to apologise, for what he's not entirely sure, but it doesn't matter because he can't afford to care so much what Theon feels, he's just a prisoner, a prisoner who loves Robb more than anyone else, and they have another prisoner, that girl on her knees with Theon's arrow at her head. Robb barely remembered she was real.

“Give me my life m'lord, and I'm yours.” Gods, is that what he sounds like? What would this woman do if he told her to?

For a moment Robb wants to kill her, he wants to kill her just because he can, because he is the Lord of Winterfell and that is his right, to give and take life as he sees fit, and this woman will be dead long before she learns what a disgrace to his family he truly is. But no, he can't, what would his father say? A true Lord of Winterfell does not murder defenseless women just to make himself feel better about being a weak and needy and slutty little boy, no true Lord of Winterfell at all. And so she lives by his mercy, and gods how he hates the thought of anyone living by _his_ mercy.

They make their way back to the castle in painful silence, Robb and Bran and Theon and their prisoner (Robb and Bran and their two prisoners), and all the while Robb holds his brother close and thinks:  _It will be alright Bran, nothing will be right in the slightest and yet somehow, it all has to be right._  

* * *

Dinner that night is quiet and awkward, although Theon and Rickon do their best to change that. Rickon is thrilled by the whole story, and keeps asking Bran what it was like, if he was scared, if Wildlings are really eight foot tall with teeth as long as tusks. Bran is still a little shaken, although he tries put on a brave face about it (which he shouldn't have to do), so he doesn't answer Rickon's questions very well. Theon takes on that duty instead, regaling Rickon with the tale of his gallant heroism, how he slaughtered his way through the Wildlings and saved little Bran's life. _I was there too, I killed a man too,_ Robb thinks, though he barely remembers it. The direwolves circle and beg for scraps, and Robb probably shouldn't let them but he does not know how to convince Rickon to let them send Shaggydog away.

Robb doesn't know what's going through his head over most of dinner, other than: _I shouldn't have shouted like that_.

He can still see the hurt in Theon's eyes, although not very often, since Theon seems to be doing his best to avoid looking at him. Instead, he keeps his attention on Bran and Rickon, keeping their little minds happy and entertained. _Stop that!_ Robb wants to snap. _I'm sorry alright, but I can't bear you not even looking at me. I can't bear you looking at them instead._  

But wasn't snapping at Theon what created this problem in the first place?

He sighs as he reaches for his wine and drinks heavily, a little drop falling from his mouth. He doesn't know why he shouted like that, he can't remember what he was thinking. He's not sure he was thinking at all. He just remembers being scared, so scared it was like he was already dead. So scared of what, exactly? Of them killing Bran, obviously. Mayhaps of them killing him too. Maybe even of them killing Theon, if he turned up again (which he did).

But mayhaps, mayhaps what he was most scared of was that they wouldn't do any of those things. Mayhaps he was most scared that everything would be just fine, and then nothing would change.

Which is exactly what happened.

Theon looks up over a pause in his story, waiting for little Rickon to finish laughing, and catches Robb's eye. The sight of him makes Robb shudder, and he shakes so hard he knocks over his wineglass, which makes the three of them chuckle. _Don't_ , he thinks and even in his own head it comes out as a plea, _don't look at me like that Theon. You're the only one who wouldn't._

Robb sighs and drops to the floor to retrieve his glass, and mayhaps takes a little longer about it than is necessary, hiding under the table like a child. _Just apologise to him,_ says the part of him that still thinks like a man. _Say you're sorry and clear your head of it._

But he can't, not here over dinner, not with Bran and Rickon listening. Because Robb, he couldn't just grunt out a quick _I shouldn't have shouted before_ and think that made everything better. Theon deserves more than that. Robb would have to explain, to tell Theon why he said those things (he can't even remember what he did say), and how could he tell that to Bran and Rickon? Would he tell his little brothers how he just froze with fear when someone came to hurt them, that he couldn't do a thing to help? Would he tell them how jealous he got that Theon _could_? Would he tell Bran that he wished him dead, just so he wouldn't have to protect him anymore?

(Now Robb remembers what he thought.)

 _Wait until Bran and Rickon have gone to bed_ , but no, that's no better. That's the coward's way out. Theon would know then, know Robb wasn't truly sorry, he just wanted forgiveness; he wanted Theon's easy glance and reassuring laugh back without having to risk anything for it. Without having to earn it.

He's still on his knees under the table, and a thought comes to mind. A stupid thought, but not one he can shake away. _Don't be ridiculous. Bran and Rickon would notice._ But they're just boys, what would they know? Even if they saw, they wouldn't have any idea what Robb was doing. The thought is incredibly liberating. And Theon, Theon would know how sorry Robb was, how much he was willing to risk, how much of himself he would give so long as he could have Theon back (so long as Theon wouldn't leave).

Theon and Rickon are still laughing over their merry little adventure story, and even Bran is starting to sound like he's smiling (as soon as Robb is out of sight). Robb is still shaking, and he must have gone mad, but he's making his way between Theon's legs where he belongs.

There's a pause in Theon's body when he feels Robb's hand on his knee, but not in his voice, and he just sighs and slumps further into his chair as Robb knowingly deals with the laces. He's not hard yet, but that's alright, if there's one thing Robb knows how to do. He does it slowly, just breathing over Theon's prick at first, then gently tickling the head with his tongue. Mayhaps he's teasing, but Theon knows how to deal with that if he gets sick of it.

Seemingly Theon doesn't get sick of it, and Robb gets impatient at the feel of Theon hardening against his lips. He swallows the head and smiles at the choked off groan he earns, a little too quiet to be suspicious. He wishes Theon would do it harder, that he'd thrust, choke him, gag him, make him splutter and cry, but that would be too obvious. Bran and Rickon would definitely notice that and, while they wouldn't understand what was happening, they'd understand that it was hurting Robb (they wouldn't understand how much he likes it when it hurts).

He wishes Theon would at least touch his hair, but that would be suspect too; Bran and Rickon would wonder why his hands weren't above the table to eat his dinner.

Theon can't touch him and so he touches Theon, he rubs along his thighs, kneads his balls, tickles his base and slaves his own tongue over his head. He just wants Theon know that he is good, that he is very good, and he is very sorry. It seems to be working, as he can feel the shake in Theon's body even as his voice, his idle chitchat with Bran and Rickon, gives nothing away ( _aren't they wondering where I am by now?_ ).

Robb bobs his head enthusiastically, and if he was in the brothel he'd be moaning, showing off how very much he likes it but he doesn't think Theon wants that, he doesn't think Theon wants to be caught. _He_ doesn't want to be caught, at least, he doesn't think so. Robb doesn't really know what he wants, apart from Theon's cock. Yes, he wants that, it's easy to want that, apart from all the times wanting Theon's cock has made him want to die of shame. But right now, with Theon hard and leaking in his mouth, it's the easiest thing in the world, it makes his head feel so full there's no room for anything else.

Then he makes Theon shudder, a little too hard, and a second wineglass goes flying. Robb jumps and Theon pops out of his mouth as Dornish red spills all over the floor, like blood. Robb has to move one hand so his cuff won't stain, and Theon just chuckles, neatly tucking his prick away and excusing himself to pick it up.

But he doesn't make for the glass once he drops under the table. No, he makes for Robb, smirking and crawling on all fours like an animal (mayhaps a wolf) about to pounce upon its prey.

Robb should see it coming when he's knocked upon his back.

“Theon–” he chokes but Theon's teeth are in his neck, biting so hard it'll bleed and Robb can't do anything but moan. “Theon they'll notice.”

Because they will, of course they will, ducking under the table to suck Theon off is one thing but _this –_ but Theon just chuckles and Robb's not trying to stop him, no he's pulling frantically at Theon's clothes, trying to get his jerkin open, trying to get his laces undone again and he's not having a lot of success, but Theon is doing a lot better with him, discarding his breeches so quickly Robb can't be sure they existed at all.

(Somewhere far away and very quiet, Rickon asks “What are they doing under there?”

Bran makes a noncommittal noise, like he's shrugging.)

Robb moans as he feels Theon's hot, hard cock pressed against his arse, and it'll hurt he knows it'll hurt he'll probably tear and bleed all over this kitchen floor, but he just has to look at Theon's easy smile and know that doesn't mean a thing to him, he'll do anything Theon wants, and he'll love every second of it, they'll both love it so much they won't even think about anything else–

“Theon,” he moans again but some part of him is still barely tethered to reality, even if he wishes it wasn't, “Theon they'll hear–”

That makes Theon chuckle again.

“Only because you moan like a bitch in heat.”

And like that he's inside, and Robb doesn't moan, he _shrieks_ , it should hurt but Robb can't feel anything beneath the hot hard pulsing pleasure, Theon fucking him so hard he'll break, _that's right fuck me until I break_ , it's so good, it's never been this good before, _no whoremonger's ever fucked me like you Theon, please just keep me here forever, keep me under this table and fuck me until there's nothing left of me,_ and like that he spills, and he's screaming, he's dying, he's flying–

Then Robb is back in his chair.

He blinks, confused, as he tries to register what's happened. _Did I black out?_   Grey Wind lays by his feet, whimpering. He can feel the heat under his skin and the come running down his legs, but when he looks across the table Theon hasn't even broken a sweat, and he's not looking at Robb either. No, he's still talking to Rickon, explaining in great detail why Krakens are bigger, meaner and much scarier than anything they have north of the wall. Bran is just watching them with a bemused chuckle and a shake of the head.

Theon never looks at him, but Bran does, casting his eyes across the table and giving Robb a small smile. Robb smiles back as best he can, reaches for his wineglass, and drains it. _Mayhaps I am going mad,_ he thinks. Or mayhaps he went mad long ago.


	10. blindfold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He remembers the Dance of the Dragons from his lessons, if only because he could never quite get his head around it. Aegon and Rhaenyra, they were brother and sister – half-brother and sister, sure, but Robb only had to look at Jon to know the blood tie was just as strong. Robb couldn't understand how they could have brought themselves to fight one another like that, to hate one another like that, and for what? A crown? How could anyone want that more than their own family?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, we have officially hit like... well not peak sad, since I can't say things are about to get any better, but like plateau sad, because I have no idea how to make this shit more depressing. ~~And I haven't even killed Ned yet.~~

Robb takes a cool bath to try and clear away the heat and confusion, and manages the heat at least. He's still not sure what happened at dinner, if anything even did, but he's horribly ashamed of himself regardless. Even if he didn't, he thought he did, he _would_ have – with Bran and Rickon sitting right there, where they just had to move their little faces to see and what if they asked what he was doing? What would he tell them?

He wants to cower in his rooms and not have to see them again tonight (mayhaps he never wants to see them again), but no, he owes his brothers better than that. He goes to Rickon first, who's still whining and pouting that he doesn't want to go to bed, and Robb can't really convince him to, although Rickon claims he's going to stay through the night. Robb sighs and thinks, if Rickon does get up and go wandering, he can't possibly be going to get in as much trouble as Robb is.

Then he goes to Bran.

When he finds Bran the boy's reading, a small smile upon his face. Bran can enjoy reading again, now he has a say in the matter, thanks to Tyrion Lannister's saddle. The same Tyrion Lannister whose family did this to him in the first place, who their mother has taken to trial in the Eyrie (she should be back by now) and yet all Bran's happiness is owed to him.

(To hell with the brothel, Robb should have sucked Lord Tyrion's cock right there in the courtyard of Winterfell. Perhaps that would have done something about the knot in his stomach of confused guilt and unfulfilled obligation.)

(It wouldn't have.)

“Robb,” Bran looks up, surprised. Robb flinches when he realises he hasn't come to say goodnight in a few days, maybe a week ( _too busy running away to get fucked by other men, too busy pleasuring myself at the thought of it when I was here, too ashamed to face my little brother afterward_ ). “Is something wrong?”

 _Where do I even start?_ “No, I just... came to say goodnight,” he says. There's a pause and that hurts. He half-expects Bran to snap _goodnight then!_ and roll on his side. “I know it's been a little while,” he says.

Bran smiles, and nods. “That's alright. You've been busy.”

 _Oh you have no idea._ But there is so much kindness in his eyes, Bran looks like he understands, even if he cannot possibly, and Robb loves him so much in that moment. _How could I have ever wished you dead little brother?_

“What are you reading?” he asks so he will not start to cry.

“Hmm? Oh, one of Maester Luwin's histories. About the Dance of the Dragons.”

Dragons. Robb doesn't remember many of the stories Bran's told him about his dreams, but he seems to remember dragons. There were no dragons in his dreams, the ones he had during that fever, the ones he wants so desperately to forget. Sometimes he wonders if Bran's dreams are similar, sometimes he wants to ask. But he can't, and of course they're not. Little Bran's mind couldn't possibly be so sick.

He remembers the Dance of the Dragons from his lessons, if only because he could never quite get his head around it. Aegon and Rhaenyra, they were brother and sister – half-brother and sister, sure, but Robb only had to look at Jon to know the blood tie was just as strong. Robb couldn't understand how they could have brought themselves to fight one another like that, to hate one another like that, and for what? A crown? How could anyone want that more than their own family?

“Huh. Interesting.” Robb searches for some question to ask, some signal he can give Bran that yes, he does care about Bran's books and his dragons and his dreams, and he finds nothing. The conversation lapses into silence while he looks, and then he sees Bran is staring at him.

“Robb? Are you _sure_ nothing's wrong?”

That startles him so much he jumps, and Bran looks a little embarrassed. “I mean – I know things are _wrong_ ,” he says. “I'll never walk again, for one. Also I was almost killed by wildlings. Also I was almost killed by the Lannisters. In fact I keep almost getting killed, and I have no idea why. I know Mother and Father and everyone are all gone. And I know Father's been hurt, Robb, you're not as subtle as you think you are.”

Robb wanted to hide that from Bran, wanted to keep him safe, wanted not to hurt him, but from the look in his eyes Robb would say Bran is hurt that Robb _didn't_ tell him. “I'm sorry,” he mutters, not sure what else he can say.

Bran shakes his head like it doesn't even matter. “That's not what I'm talking about, not right now. I'm–” He takes a deep breath like he's working his way up to saying something he really doesn't want to. “I'm talking about you, Robb. Is there something wrong with you?”

Robb can only stare, gobsmacked. “I–”

“Because I know this isn't easy for you,” Bran rushes out like he's afraid of the answer. “Maester Luwin's always telling me how much pressure you're under, that I have to understand, you can't just be the boy you once were no matter how much I'd like you to be, no matter how much _you'd_ like to be. And I do understand, really Robb, I do, I just – you worry me, sometimes. You get this look in your eyes, and... it's like you went away too. I don't know what I'd do without you.”

 _You worry me._ No, that's not right, Robb is his big brother, it's his job to worry about Bran, not the other way around. _It's like you went away too._ Did he do that? Did he leave Bran the same way Mother left him? “I'm sorry,” he chokes out again because he still can't think of anything else to say, but from the look on Bran's face he knows it was the wrong thing.

“You don't have to lie to me, Robb,” says Bran, and Robb thinks _but I can't possibly tell you the truth._ “You don't have to be okay all the time. I'm your brother, you can tell me anything.”

For a moment, Robb wants to. He wants to tell Bran everything. Because Bran, he's so kind and gentle and sweet, he's never judged anyone for anything in his life. He'd still love Robb afterward, Robb knows he would. And Bran always was the smart one, Mother said as much (mayhaps that's why he was her favourite, mayhaps that's why her eyes went dead when his body did) – maybe he could help Robb understand his sickness, maybe he could help Robb _cure_ it. Bran's right, they're brothers, aren't they meant to be able to rely on each other for anything? That's what Father always said.

 _He's a child_. Robb digs his nails into his knee. What is he thinking, how could he tell Bran anything, how could he even consider it? Bran wouldn't understand a word. He doesn't even know what _that_ is (and with his injury, he might never, not fully). Robb would have to make him understand, and he can't bear the thought. He can't bear the thought of seeing Bran's eyes go wide with shock, horror, confusion, disappointment as Robb explains just what his big brother has been up to, how wrong it is, how shameful, how disgusting, how Robb has disgraced their family name for just a few moments of release.

He can't bear the thought of telling his little brother, the boy who will be lord if anything ever happens to him, that he hates it so much he'd rather be a common whore.

The Lannisters already took most of Bran's innocence that day they threw him from that window, and Robb will not take the rest. Bran is his little brother, and it's Robb's job to protect him – mayhaps he can't protect him from Wildlings, or Lannisters, but at least he can protect Bran from himself.

“I'm fine,” he says, and forces himself not to flinch at Bran's crestfallen look. “I'm just–” He coughs so Bran will not hear the crick in his voice. “I think I'm just a little sick.”

Bran seems to know he won't get anything more out of him, and he thinks this over, nodding slowly.

“Well. That's the last thing we need.”

Robb laughs at that. _How right you are little brother. You are the smart one._

“Get some sleep,” he says, standing over and leaning to kiss Bran on the brow. Bran smiles.

Just before he goes however, Bran catches him by the wrist. “Robb.”

Bran's hands are so much smaller than Robb's solid, square ones, just like Father's, and yet when Bran takes his hand he seems to be trying to fold one of his little ones over it. _Don't touch those, they're dirty,_ Robb thinks, sounding just like his mother.

“...You know I love you very much, right?”

 _I love you._ How long has it been since he's heard that? Of all the things that went unsaid during his goodbye with Father, Robb didn't even think of that one.

“I love you too,” he whispers, ruffling Bran's hair. “Now sleep.”

_I love you so much Bran, you and Rickon both, more than anything even though I have no idea how to, but I am trying, and I know I'm being selfish but please don't hate me just because sometimes I'm so weak I want you dead._

Bran sighs and lets go, curling up under the furs to do so. Robb sighs and starts making his way back to his chambers. He won't fool himself into thinking he'll stay the night there, but he needs to close his eyes for awhile to banish the sight of his little brother's heartbroken face from his mind.

* * *

His client that night is a man from the Night's Watch. It makes him flinch a little, but he doesn't say anything. He can't be the only highborn boy in the North with family in the Watch, but it's not worth taking the risk. Apparently the man likes being bound to the bed and blindfolded, which takes Robb by surprise – he's had men who've wanted to do that to him (sometimes he still sees marks from the man he pretended to be a Stormlander for), but not the other way around. He asks Lya if he's really the right person for this job, but she laughs him off. “He paid well and asked for the prettiest boywhore we have, and so that's what he's getting.”

Robb doesn't know what the point of specifying you'd like a pretty one if you want to be blindfolded anyway, but he supposes it's no business of his. Also, where do men of the Night's Watch get money?

He goes to that customer like he goes to most: clothed, but prepared. The man is already tied down and naked but for the strip of black cloth over his eyes when Robb sees him. He wasn't expecting that.

For a moment he takes in this man's body. He's younger than Robb expected, lithe of frame, with full lips and dark stubble on his chin, a mass of black curls blending into the cotton blinding him.

“Are you waiting for something?”

Robb jumps. He didn't realise the man was aware he had even entered the room. “Forgive me, my lord. Just give me a moment to take my clothes off.” He closes the door and strips himself with shaking hands, while his customer scoffs.

“ _My lord_ ,” and it makes something in Robb twinge a little, but he shakes the thought away.

He's been thrown off-balance, he knows he has, but if his customer can't see him hopefully he won't notice. He sits on the side of the bed, examining this man's body and his prick. Longer than his, but thinner ( _And the thickness is what really matters,_ he hears himself saying years ago, before looking to Theon for verification). He sighs and wraps a hand around the pink half-hardness, gives a teasing gentle stroke to get it ready. It doesn't do very much however, and the man groans.

“Is that the best you can do?”

Robb frowns, and strokes a little firmer. He's never had any complaints before.

“Seven hells, I said pretty, not virginal.”

Robb chuckles. “Oh, you don't have to worry about _that_ my lord.” Gods, he sounds ridiculous, a whore from a stage play not a real one, but the men always seem to like it when he uses that voice. This man doesn't seem to – for some reason Robb gets the distinct impression that under the blindfold, he's rolling his eyes. He leans down and gives this man's cock a long, slow lick, earning a satisfying twitch. _See, I'm the best cocksucker in the brothel, everyone says so._

He suckles on the head, letting himself make wet slurping noises as he does so, and feels the man harden against his lips and starts to squirm. _I've got him._ “Stop that,” says the man. “I don't want beard burn on my prick.”

Robb frowns and pulls back. _But I like that. I'm good at it._ But no, whatever the client wants – he should have shaved. He sighs, and comes back up, stroking it with his hands as roughly as he dares. The man takes so long to get hard, and he's big so maybe that's inevitable, but with every second Robb feels–

“My lord,” he whispers, low and seductive as he can manage, “is there something you'd like me to–”

“I'd like you to keep your mouth shut.”

Robb does so. _Whatever the client wants._ He doesn't know what this man wants really, but he's met very few men who will refuse a hand around their prick (although he's met even fewer who'll refuse a mouth). He goes as quickly, as firmly as he dares, if that's what's required, and without another word. Eventually the man is hard enough, and he starts snapping again.

“Get on it already, whore.”

“Yes, my lord.” Robb swings one knee over the man, sighing when he feels his cock just against his hole. He rocks his hips back and forth, teasing a little, getting into the swing of things now. It earns him a grunt.

“You're not some Lysene pleasure slave, you don't have to prove you're been educated in a thousand erotic arts no-one's ever even fucking heard of. You're a cheap hole I've bought for one night. Just sit on it.”

The words make him shiver and cringe all at once, which he doesn't quite understand. “Yes, my lord.” Sinking down is easy though, and he moans at the feel of a cock bearing into him. Gods, it's long. It takes Robb a good minute to get it in fully, and he wishes this man would pin him down and force it in instead. But he's been hired for something else. This is not for him.

He can't help himself, he pushes himself off and onto it quickly, gasping at the feel of it. Well, that seems to be how his client likes it, although when he looks down for a response he gets nothing – just a sullen mouth hanging slightly open. Robb frowns. The man has very full lips, very pink ones too; Robb can almost hear Theon laughing at them, _well if there was any doubt what your mother was before Snow, whoever gave you those lips had one profession only–_

Robb shakes his head. It's not Jon, it can't be, this man is nothing like Jon. As if to prove it to himself, he bucks a little faster, takes a tiny bit more cock on every thrust, and he wants to moan, but he gets the impression this man doesn't like his noises, so he bites his lip.

He looks down as the man starts muttering something. “What's your name?”

 _Why does that matter to you now?_ Robb is going to just say the first name that comes to mind again, but he finds himself pushing too far: “Robert.” _The bloody king?_ Or mayhaps, mayhaps he doesn't mean the king, maybe he means little Robert Arryn of the Vale, a boy as young as Bran, and his cousin to boot. _What would my mother think? But she should be back by now._

“Oh, of course you are. You're the right age for it. Every fucking whelp conceived in that war because someone couldn't keep it in his pants was named Robert.” _Not every one,_ but Robb doesn't want to think about that so instead he lets himself writhe and keen. “Most of 'em ended up the same place you did.”

 _I highly doubt that, my lord._ Jon would never do anything like this, of course. Or would he? Theon did always make fun of that mouth, and the Wall is a castle full of men. Robb could hardly blame Jon for getting lonely. _When I spend my nights sucking and fucking every man with a spare copper? No, I couldn't._

He doesn't want to think about Jon. Jon looks so much like Father.

Instead he tries to think about the cock filling him up, the hardness sinking into him and about to spill its seed (he thinks less about the man it is attached to). He groans as he feels it start rubbing against a spot that just brings pure pleasure, without the pain he usually can't separate from it. He sort of wishes there were some pain. But it will do, it's what this man wants, and Robb winds a hand around his own prick regardless.

This seems to amuse the man beneath him. “Are you touching yourself, boy?”

Robb whimpers, nods, realises that's not a very good answer and says, once more: “Yes my lord.”

A snort. “Well at least one of us is enjoying this.”

Robb stops. “My lord–”

“Go on. I've already paid for you. I don't have the money to go buy another whore, I don't have the power to demand a refund. You're a waste of good coin and I won't be coming back here, but do your job and ride my cock.”

He's frozen, confused and humiliated. Mayhaps he knew it wasn't going very well, but he didn't think it was going that badly? _You're still hard for me,_ he thinks, even as he wilts in his own palm. He bites his lip and tries moving again, tries stroking himself back to hardness, but it doesn't seem to work. There are still jolts of pleasure at the hard cock moving in and out of him, but they never seem to add up to anything greater.

 _It doesn't matter. It's not for me. Whatever the client wants._ Robb moans then, like if he sounds like he's enjoying it then he will be, and reaches behind himself to spread his arse wider with his hands. _Maybe if I take him a little deeper he'll like it._ He expects the man to do something, to mock him, or groan, or maybe get angry, but instead he just seems to be ignoring the whore he's buried inside. Like he's thinking about something far more important.

_No Jon please don't leave me like that, not like Mother, not again._

He shakes his head. It's not Jon, he knows it's not Jon, would he be doing this if it was Jon? Jon's only been at the Wall a few months, he might not have even taken his vows, and they wouldn't send him back south yet (sometimes Robb thinks they never will, and he'll never see Jon again). This is some Night's Watchman with black hair and full lips. There must be a couple of others.

The man groans as Robb feels him pulse inside, and when he thinks his client might be about to come, it's nothing but relief. “Do you know why I like being tied up like this?”

Robb shakes his head. “No, my lord.” He knows why _he_ likes being tied up; the same reason he likes being fucked, or beaten, or choked, or come all over, or all the other hundreds of thousands of awful, humiliating things he's let some man do to him just so he won't have to be in control of his own body for an hour. But this man, he doesn't seem the type (then again, neither does Robb).

“I don't trust myself,” he mutters, hips starting to buck into Robb, “not to hurt you. I don't want to end up with a dead whore to deal with. Trust me, Robert, you could not handle me.”

He whimpers, but scoffs. “You don't know what I can handle,” and for a second it's just like–

“You can't even handle me telling you you're not a very good whore without sounding like you're about to cry.”

Robb stops. He feels like he's about to cry. _Well if I'm a shit lord and a shit son and a shit brother and shit whore then what am I–_

He shakes his head. He just wants it over with now. He moans and keens for more of that long cock out of spite as much as anything.

Strangely, he finds himself winding his hands through that black hair for better leverage. The man looks a little puzzled (as much as he can without his eyes), but leans towards the touch. It's the first thing Robb's done that he seems to approve of, and so Robb does it harder, yanking and making the man's prick jerk inside him. _He's never met a girl he liked better than his own hair._

It's not Jon, it can't be, but what if it was? Robb suddenly can't escape the thought. Would he stop? Could he stop? No, it would be too suspicious – plenty of Northern lords have family in the Watch, but if he suddenly ran from a client because he had dark hair and pretty lips, someone would put it together. Robb groans and rides a little faster. Mayhaps he should just ask this man, see if he can remove the blindfold a second, just to be sure. But he can't – that's not what the client wants, he does what the client wants. And if it wasn't Jon, what would he say?

And what if it was? What would they even do? Despite himself, Robb can't help but imagine they would laugh. It would just be so stupid, they couldn't do anything else. _I said next time I saw you, you'd be all in black. I expected a little more black!_ Jon would blush, but they'd agree never to mention the whole embarrassing story to anyone, especially not Theon. And then he could take Jon back to Winterfell and Bran and Rickon, the looks on their faces, they'd just be so happy when they saw Robb had brought back their big brother, their _better_ brother–

“Fuck, now you really are crying.”

_Jon would never treat me like this._

Robb winces as he tries to bat his tears away without taking his hands out of the man's hair (it's the only thing he's done right so far). Jon would never treat _anyone_ like this, he's too honourable, too noble, too much a Stark. _More than I am. What sort of Stark works in a brothel? No wonder I've never been discovered._

He's starting to shake and he hopes the man will think that's pleasure rather than hurt. He rocks forward, moaning as loud as he can, wanting so badly for this man to think he likes it. Suddenly, a thought he can't fight springs to mind: _what if Jon would treat me like this? What if Jon would treat_ me _like this?_

It's stupid and paranoid, but it's not like Robb could blame Jon if he wanted to. Catelyn Tully's perfect firstborn, her hair and eyes and cheekbones, selling themselves to any man who could pay, peasants and sell-swords and bastards. How could he resist? Maybe Jon got word, maybe he _couldn't_ resist, maybe he talked his superiors into letting him go a few days just to track down what had become of the perfect little Stark heir.

 _Mayhaps he never loved me_ , Robb can't stop himself thinking. _Mayhaps he just pretended to so he could stay on side with the future Lord of Winterfell. Mayhaps that's why he wanted to leave, once Father was gone and I took his role. Mayhaps it wasn't Mother he couldn't bear to be around at all._

_Maybe he never thought of me as anything but the Stark son he could never be. Maybe he thinks the fact him leaving turned me into such a wreck I cannot pretend to deserve my name is absolutely fucking hilarious._

Robb groans and pulls the man's hair so hard it's like he'll pull it out, like he's trying to take it for himself. “Yeah, that's right,” the man can't help but mutter and so Robb does it again. _Anything, Jon. Anything you want. Just don't leave me again, please._

He should stop, but he should always stop and he never does.

“Fuck,” the client grunts as Robb bounces up and down on him, some blood starting to return to his prick. “Faster, you stupid slut.”

Robb goes faster. _That's right, Jon, call me a stupid slut, I am a stupid slut, such a stupid slut I need someone to take care of me, I need my big brother to take care of me, are you older than me? It doesn't matter just come back, I'll do anything you want Jon just come back, I've committed every kind of depravity what's a little incest thrown into the mix, just stay with me Jon I need you–_

“Gods!”

He moans when he feels a splash of come, small and slow, but hot and undeniable, inside him. _I made him come. Oh thank the Old Gods, the New Gods, every god in every heaven, I actually made him come._

Robb stills, half-hard and wrapped around this man's softening prick. _Maybe he'll let me get myself off._ As his wits start to return, he realises how unlikely that is. He stares through the blindfold, searching for Stark grey eyes, but of course there's nothing but fabric.

“Are you waiting for something? Untie me.”

“...Sorry my lord.” Robb's still not fully tethered to reality, but he does as he's told, undoing the knots with a struggle and looking at how faint the pink marks left are – not like the blood that ran last time he got tied up. He goes from the ropes to the blindfold, but the man turns his head.

“No. I can deal with that myself. I don't want to see your face.”

Usually Robb likes it, these cruel dismissals that remind him who he is and what he's for, but this time it just _hurts_ and it makes him snap. “If you don't want to see my face, why did you say you wanted a pretty whore?!”

It seems to surprise his client, but it also makes him laugh. “Because the pretty ones are usually paid well enough they have a little backbone.”

And Robb just shatters. _Oh? Is that all you wanted?_ Of course that's what he wanted; that's why he was acting like that, to make Robb fight back. No-one warned him how truly pathetic the boy he'd purchased was. Robb feels stupid, so stupid for not figuring it out, but it's too late now. He just hopes he won't cry again.

“Go on, your coin's on the table. Put on your clothes and go.”

Robb does so as quickly as he possibly can, just wanting to go back to Winterfell, curl up in his bed and sob. As he rushes past half-dressed he sees Cass, her usual stare as puzzled as much as angry this time.

“Oh, come on,” she says at the look on his face, “the man was tied down. How could he have possibly been too rough for _you_?”

“Fuck off,” he grunts at her, and maybe he'll feel guilty about that later (it's not like he doesn't understand why she resents him) but he can't bear to see her judging eyes, not tonight.

* * *

On his way home, Robb throws up in the street. _But I didn't even swallow his seed,_ he thinks, half-hysterical as the townsfolk give pitying looks to what they think is a wandering drunk. _If only I could say I was drunk. Gods, my own brother–_

It wasn't Jon, it couldn't have been, the man didn't even look that much like Jon – he was a lot taller than Jon, without his muscles, and his black hair was a midnight colour, almost blue. Jon's is still a Stark colour, with warmth beneath it all, it shines chocolate in sunlight.

( _Jon would never have treated me like that. How could I think he would? He's better than that._ )

But it doesn't really matter that it wasn't Jon, because he thought it was, thought it could be at least, maybe hoped it was. Why? He's never wanted Jon like that, he's sure of it (unlike Theon, even before all this, he might well have wanted Theon for years).

 _I'm just a whore, I'd let anyone do it._ Is that why? Did he want to fuck his own brother just to prove he was depraved enough he would?

Robb can't choke back a sob. Jon was the one member of his family he could have maybe, _maybe_ forgiven him this. After all, his mother was (probably) a whore, and he's spent his whole life obsessed with her. Besides, Jon's not a Stark. It isn't his family name Robb has disgraced.

But this? How could Jon ever forgive him this? Robb didn't even try to warn the man, didn't even try to check, he was too concerned with proving what a good whore he was and making sure he wouldn't get caught. How could Jon do anything but hate him if he knew Robb would have let him commit incest just to save his own worthless hide?

 _I've committed every kind of depravity what's a little incest thrown into the mix,_ but it is, it's different. He's betrayed his family a million times over but never so – so directly. Why? He didn't even enjoy himself. What did he disgrace his brother's memory for?

 _He is not dead_ , he has to remind himself.

 _(I'll do anything you want Jon just come back._ )

Robb throws up again and has to move his cuff so it won't stain. He has to get home. Bran and Rickon will worry.

* * *

The next few weeks pass in an odd sort of haze. Robb doesn't remember much of them, not even his work at the brothel, although he knows he's still going (and he doesn't think there are any nights as bad as the night with the man who wasn't Jon). Theon spends most of his time with Bran and Rickon, and he laughs and smiles like he's forgiven Robb for what happened in the forest, but not like he's forgotten. Robb can't bring himself to think about it anymore.

Bran still looks at him sometimes with those eyes, sad and wise and worried, and still so very young. Robb finds himself avoiding his little brother. He knows he shouldn't, but when Bran looks at him like that, it's very hard not to just break down and tell him everything. _I have to protect you. You'll thank me one day. What would Mother think?_

One night (or maybe it's morning?) he comes home and sees Maester Luwin waiting in the hall. His heart races. _He knows_ , he thinks, absurdly.

It settles in a second, however, and a strange sense of relief floods him. Because even if Maester Luwin doesn't know – of course, Maester Luwin. Robb can tell him everything. He almost laughs it's so obvious. Luwin's known him since he was a child and he's never truly been angry over anything; no matter how much trouble Robb, or Jon, or any of his siblings, or Theon ever got into, Luwin was never anything but kind and understanding. _Maybe he will understand. Maybe he'll know what's wrong with me, and how to cure it._ Of course, Robb is sick. Who else would he turn to with a sickness?

Besides, Luwin is Maester of Winterfell, sworn to whoever is lord of it. _He could hate me, but he could never abandon me._

“You're up late,” Robb says, cheerful, more relaxed than he's been in months. It will be over soon. As soon as he figures out how to say it all.

Then he sees the worried look on Luwin's face as he slumps over crumpled piece of parchment. Then Robb's absurd fantasy of confession and absolution falls apart, like every fantasy does in the end.

“Forgive me, my lord. I would have waited until you had gotten some sleep but–” Luwin doesn't even look up at him until the sentence is almost over, “–more bad news I'm afraid. Another letter from King's Landing.”

Robb frowns. “From my father?” _Tell me he is not dead._

“No. From your sister.” Maester Luwin's lip quivers. “Allegedly.”


	11. bedroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon looks up at him with eyes wide and desperate. “Can I?”
> 
> He's taken aback, and almost thinks it's a jape at first, but he's never heard Theon sound so sincere in his life. This isn't like him, asking for permission. “Of course you can,” he says. _Anything you want, Theon. Didn't I tell you that?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, things have slowed down a bit because midsemester break is over, and I'm back at uni. Also we're getting to the end of term so things are a bit chaotic assignment-wise and stuff. Anyway, this chapter is really long, and really depressing. This shouldn't surprise anybody.

And so it is that after months of feeling so trapped in Winterfell he could hardly breathe, of dreaming he could just leave it and all its responsibilities behind, of praying his family would just come home and save him from the prison that might have been this castle but might just have been his own mind, Robb Stark is following them all – apart from Jon, which it hurts to think is a _relief_ now – south.

 _But Bran, how will he cope, he's just a child, that's not fair that's not right_ , Robb hasn't told him yet because how can he, how can he tell his little brother he's going to abandon him like everyone else abandoned the both of them? But he can't stay with Bran either. That wouldn't be right, because the Lannisters, they have his Father, not only his Father but his _sisters_ , and poor little Sansa and the sight of the Queen's words in her shaky hand, a couple of letters smudged by tears, but so few, like she was trying to be brave and hold them back. _My poor sisters, all alone with those people, they're so much better than me – but I have to protect them._ But he has to protect his brothers too, and how can he protect any of them when he can't even see them, and it's just not fair no-one ever told him he would have to choose between them.

When he called the banners, he did it because it was right, because it was his duty, because it was what Father would do. But it wasn't like he was really doing it, it was like he was reciting lines on a stage, a mummer's farce for an unseen and unseeing audience. Is that all he is? Is that all he's ever been? Not a lord, not even a whore, just an actor playing whatever part he's given?

But Luwin looked so _proud_ of him, and Robb couldn't tell him the truth, not then. He probably never will. (He might never see Maester Luwin again.)

It's no surprise where he ends up. He brings Grey Wind with him once more, something he's not done in weeks, all the while thinking, _I can't, I can't even be considering it, if the Lannisters find out, they could all be spies in there it was always too easy, Father and Sansa and Arya, I have to save them, I have to leave, I should leave tonight not–_

Those things are not so different from the things he's always told himself, all the things that haven't stopped him a million times before, so why should it be any different tonight – now his father's life hangs in the balance?  _Just one more time_ , he pleads with himself, and it sounds like a lie but can it be? _I won't be able to do this once I go south. I won't ever feel any escape from – I just need it to steal my mind from me. Just once more, just for a little bit._

(The last time he remembers, it didn't steal his mind away, it left him more trapped with it than ever.)

 When he arrives, Lya is smiling at him, like usual. He expects one of her odd sorts of endearments – _there's my favourite cocksucker, do you have any idea how the men whine when you're late?_ \- but she doesn't say anything until he approaches the desk. She looks well, he realises. Younger than she usually does. Has she cut her hair or something?

“Why hello, m'lord. And what can I do for you this evening?”

He laughs, even as he feels oddly nervous. _Lya's always a tease._ For a second, he wishes he could have brought Grey Wind in with him. “You know,” he mutters, and despite it all he blushes.

“Indeed I do. Well, I know what most men come in here for. So, is there one of the girls you'd like special? Or do you want us to choose one for you?”

“I–” he blinks, bewildered. _What is she talking about?_ Then behind her he sees a man in the backroom, old, portly, with the look of someone who spends a lot of time in establishments like this. A customer? But what would he be doing in the backroom? _Why did she say 'us'?_

“Why hello there.”

He turns his head and suddenly realises a girl has snuck up behind him. Cass.

But no, this isn't Cass. She has Cass' frame, Cass' features, Cass' huge teats, but it's not Cass, just some woman wearing her skin. Her face is all wrong. She wears an alluring smile, not a sullen frown, she bats her lashes and gazes up at him with huge doe eyes, she does not glare with ones full of resentment. He doesn't even think her eyes are the right colour – he was sure Cass' were molten brown, the colour of chocolate, but this girl's irises are a piercing hazel green. You couldn't make the mistake unless it was very dark–

Robb suddenly feels dizzy, almost drunk.

“...Hello,” he says, very quiet. Cass keeps looking up, expectant, and Robb can't bear to see those hazel eyes anymore so he turns back to Lya. “Sorry, I shouldn't have – sorry.”

Then he turns on his heel and runs. Grey Wind seems a little nonplussed, but follows along until he leaps ahead, so fast Robb almost can't see him. As he goes he thinks he hears someone – Cass, Lya, Ros, Mother, Sansa, Bran, Jon, Father? – calling his name. 

* * *

He ends up in the only place he can think to go. Theon's rooms. _It was just some stupid prank_ , he tells himself as he knocks on the door. _Cass probably talked Lya into it. She doesn't like me, and Lya, Lya can never resist a jape._ He'd dread going back there and seeing the look of smug victory on Cass' face, but since he rides south so soon he won't have to – he'll probably never see her again.

Theon looks surprised when he answers his door. “You're back early,” he says, and Robb's almost surprised by the acknowledgement he's been away at all.

“Aye,” he says. “Can I come in?”

Theon nods and stands aside to let him. “Do you want some wine?” he asks, nodding to a skin on the bedside table.

“No thank you.” Robb still feels a little queasy, he probably shouldn't push it.

He finds himself collapsing on Theon's bed without thinking about it. It's been awhile since he's been in Theon's chambers, he realises, not since the King's visit. Not since Mother and Father and everyone left. The times he and Theon have – they have (have they ever?) – it's not been in a bed. Robb's not even imagined it in a bed. That would be too intimate, too personal, that's not Theon's style. Although most of his clients have taken him in a bed, and that was never intimate or personal, so Robb isn't sure what the difference is.

Theon just stands at the foot of the bed, eyeing Robb carefully, almost like he doesn't know what to do – should he join Robb in the furs or not? “So, where have you been then?” he asks.

Robb blushes, but he sees no point in denying it. “Brothel.”

Theon snorts. “Thought so.” Then he moves onto the bed, laying by Robb's side with a relaxed sigh (and reaching for his wineskin). “So what, just couldn't find you were looking for there?”

“Something like that,” Robb says, because even to Theon, he has no idea how to explain what happened tonight. He can't even explain it to himself.

“I understand, don't worry,” says Theon, and Robb wonders how he could possibly understand, but he doesn't ask. Robb looks away, but out of the corner of his eye he sees Theon looking down at his worried frown, and sighing. “Are you scared Stark?”

Robb doesn't answer that. _Of course I am you idiot_ , he thinks, but the anger abates as he feels Theon gently wind a hand through his auburn curls.

“I don't blame you. Don't let it get back to the Iron Islands, but: I'm scared too.” He smirks, like he cannot believe what he just said. “So: let us be disgraces to our families and all things considered right and manly together, eh?”

Gently Theon guides Robb's head to make him look at him, and Robb is struck by the look in his eyes – soft and loving. Kind. “Theon,” he chokes, “could we–”

He looks away again, blushing. Mayhaps it's stupid, but he's never – he's never actually had to ask for it before. At the brothel, it was always clear from the beginning what he was there for, and with Theon – well with Theon is always just sort of happened (if it ever did). For all the skills his months of whoring have given him, seduction isn't really one of them.

Theon's fingers hesitate in his hair, like they're on the edge of pulling away, but aren't sure whether they really want to. “Robb,” he says, his voice low and strangely serious, “what are you asking me for?”

Robb looks up and into Theon's eyes – a haunting sea-green, the colour of something Robb's never seen. Or so he presumes. “Please,” he whispers. “I want you, Theon. I want you more than anyone,” he confesses. “All of them, they're just – substitutes.” Robb almost flinches with guilt, because it feels like a lie – and yet it doesn't. But it must be, because why would he need a substitute? “I can't ever stop thinking about you.”

 _I can't ever stop thinking_.

“Robb...” Theon says, but his hand hasn't left, and oh so slowly, he seems to be moving closer. “We can't...”

 _Can't we? Haven't we?_ “Sure we can,” he says with a weak smile. “It's easy. I'll show you.”

Theon laughs at that, and then he just stares into Robb's eyes, so close, and Robb thinks – hopes? fears? – he's about to kiss him.

“You can do anything you want, Theon,” he whispers. “Anything. Just _please_.”

Theon really does kiss him then.

Robb groans as Theon rolls him onto his back, swings a leg either side of him as he claims him with his mouth, biting his lips and sucking his tongue like he's trying to consume him. _Gods, yes Theon, you can eat me alive._ “I want you more than anyone too,” Theon says as he pulls back for air. “I tried not to. I tried telling myself I didn't. But I never stopped thinking about you for a second.”

“Theon–” Robb gasps, but he can't say anything else, even as Theon's lips fixate on his neck, sucking like they'll leave a mark. His hands reach for Robb's jerkin, unlacing with the sure hand of a man who's done this a thousand times, and yet they're also shaking.

The jerkin comes away and falls to the floor, and soon after so does Robb's tunic. Theon pulls away and just stares for a moment, and Robb can't help but squirm. He knows Theon will see marks – bruises, bites, even a scar here and there – and despite everything Theon knows about him, he can't help but think Theon will be disgusted once he sees the reality of it, written all over his body. He can't bear to look at himself.

But Theon doesn't do that. “Fuck, you're beautiful,” he gasps, and when Robb looks up at him he sees the pink spreading across his cheeks. “Who even _needs_ teats?”

Robb laughs and then Theon's mouth is on his chest, kissing him all over, and Robb gasps when he bites at a nipple. “Sorry,” Theon murmurs, and Robb doesn't get to clarify that no, he liked that, Theon can do it again, before he realises Theon's hands are at the laces of his breeches and suddenly he just stops.

Theon looks up at him with eyes wide. “Can I?”

He's taken aback, and almost thinks it's a jape at first, but he's never heard Theon sound so sincere in his life. This isn't like him, asking for permission. “Of course you can,” he says. _Anything you want, Theon. Didn't I tell you that?_

Theon nods and lets out a shaky breath, undoing Robb's laces slowly. Reverently. It makes Robb cringe a little – _that's nothing special, it doesn't need such care._

They fall open quickly enough though, and Theon can't be bothered to take them off before he sticks his hand inside. Robb moans and arches to the touch as he feels Theon's strong hand wrap around him. “Fuck, you're big,” he comments.

“It's not as big as yours,” Robb says. _Does it matter?_ he wonders. It should do, it always used to, back when things were different – he might have been a proper little lordling, not oversexed and overcompetitive like Theon, but he was still a teenage boy. He wanted to know his prick was good enough to give pleasure, not just receive it. But he has other parts for that now.

Theon chuckles. “No, but that is a hard one to match,” and Robb is suddenly struck by the thought of Theon's cock, big and hard and waiting for him, and he needs to touch it right now. He yanks at Theon's laces with shaking, eager hands, like a green boy's, and Theon groans. “Fuck, Robb.”

 _Something like that._ Robb can't wait for him to pull his breeches away either, so he just grabs at Theon's prick, needy and desperate, and groans with satisfaction at how it jumps and hardens in his hand. _I'm good at this, I like this, so why not do it forever?_

“Robb, _fuck_ ,” Theon moans as Robb strokes him, hard and fast, too needy, he's _always_ too needy. “Gods, don't stop.”

 _I won't. I always should, and I never do._ “Theon,” he says and he's begging now, “I want – I want–”

Theon kisses him again. Robb moans as he does so, trying to suck his tongue into his mouth. _Fuck me, Theon. Fuck me with your mouth, fuck me with your hands, fuck me with your cock. Fuck me with every bit of you you've got. Fuck me until I'm yours, until I'll never be anything but yours, until I never have been._

“I know, Robb,” Theon whispers against his lips. “Drowned God, I know.”

His mouth is back on Robb's neck and he just leans into it, arching his back off the warm furs. It's like being swept away by the tide, and he can't help but wonder where it will take him. _I know exactly where this will take me._ On his his hands and knees, or his back, or riding Theon's cock, however he's wanted, just taking it like a bitch, or a saltwife, or a whore. Theon will use him and throw him aside, and Robb will love him for it. _How can I possibly want this?_ he wonders. _And how can I want it so badly?_

He gasps as Theon sucks again at his nipples, gently this time – Robb's about to beg him to do it harder, to bite him until it bruises, before Theon moves down, sucking kisses all over Robb's stomach. Robb can feel him, hard and grinding against his clothed thigh. He spreads his legs wider (and Theon winces as his hips splay a little too far).

 _Fuck me, Theon. Fuck me now, fuck me hard, fuck me bloody._ He tries to say all that, but nothing comes out but a strangled moan as Theon sucks at his hipbones, and then his navel, then the crook of his thigh. His beard tickles and his dark hair almost tangles with the red curls around Robb's prick. Robb can feel his hands shake where they rest on Robb's thighs, almost like he's nervous – like he's building himself up to something–

Robb screams when he feels Theon's warm, wet mouth close around his prick. It's like a bubble bursting, or perhaps being crashed over by an ocean wave.

“Theon–” he chokes, and when he looks down Theon has his eyes screwed shut like he cannot look, and he's holding Robb by the hips to pin him down. He's not taking in very much, just the tip really, but he's shaking with the effort of it – or mayhaps the effort of holding back. His hands pin Robb down like he's afraid he'll wash away. Robb pants, uncomprehending and keening into that wet heat. _He'll make me come like this, and then he'll fuck me when I'm raw and blissed, some men are like that._ “Theon–”

“Robb.” Theon pulls off to stare up at him, and it's only then Robb sees the truly desperate look in his eyes. “Robb _please_.”

He struggles to say _something_ , but it's like the words have been taken right from him – like he's the one with a cock down his mouth. Because Theon does it again without even waiting for an answer, he swallows Robb as deep as he can, gags once and pulls back, wrapping his hand around the saliva-slicked base instead. He still humps Robb's leg like a bitch in heat, and his eyes are still closed.

Robb can't resist, it feels good. “ _Theon_ ,” he whispers, Theon's nails digging new bruises into his hips. “Just like that.”

Theon whimpers at the words and Robb's hips buck, despite the hands holding them down, making Theon gag once more. He barely even notices, he just strokes Robb faster and sucks him harder, but he still can't look at him, _I always like it from behind_ , and it's like if Theon pauses for a second he'll stop, Robb will be washed away, they can't stop not now–

“Theon,” Robb gasps, sinking into the furs like he's drowning. “I'm gonna come–”

Theon stops.

Robb struggles for breath, head spinning as Theon's hand stays wrapped around his prick. When he looks down he sees Theon's eyes open, staring up at him wide and unreadable. _Please_ , he wants to beg, but he doesn't even know what he'd be begging for. Theon's hand shakes like it wants to move, wants to touch Robb, stroke him and make him come, but he's holding back – for what?

“Robb...” Theon whispers and Robb can barely hear him. “Not yet. I – I want...”

 _You want to fuck me. So do._ Theon is chewing his lip, and it's strange, that's really Robb's habit – that's half his family's habit, they got it from Mother – and he just won't stop staring, like he's waiting for Robb to do something. _Don't look at me like that Theon. You're the only one who wouldn't._

Robb forces a smile. “You can do anything you want with me, Theon,” he says. Whatever the client wants. _Do anything just make me your whore._ “Anything.”

“Anything?” Theon sounds like he's never heard the word.

“Anything.”

For a long moment Theon just lays there, still staring, still chewing his lip, and Robb almost wants to shout at him. _What are you waiting for?!_ But eventually he does move, and Robb's heart thuds when he sees him getting up – _no, you can't leave, I need you, these are your chambers! –_ but he's just tearing off his breeches and he's back on top of Robb in a second. Robb sees his hard prick poking out from the length of his nightshirt, and smiles as he arches towards it. Theon gasps, rutting into Robb helplessly, then one hand flies up to the laces at his neck. But he's still staring into Robb's eyes.

“Should I...?”

Robb blinks. _Why would you ask me that?_ “If you want to,” he offers.

Theon hesitates a moment, then sets his hand back down. Specifically, he sets it back down on Robb's crotch, and Robb groans as Theon pulls at his hard prick. “Theon–”

“Don't talk.” Robb moans, yes that's good, he likes the order, he doesn't need to talk, he doesn't need to know what's going on, he's just a whore he'd let anyone do it (but even he can't miss the pleading note in Theon's voice). Theon's still chewing his lip, and then his hand disappears as he crawls up along Robb's body, and Robb doesn't really know what's going on but Theon is getting closer, and he's still staring, he's so _close_ –

Robb gasps as he feels his cock slip right between the cheeks of Theon's arse, and right against his tight dry hole.

“Fuck,” hisses Theon as he starts to roll his hips back and forth, as lewd as Robb's ever been. No, this can't be what he wants, can it? This isn't anything like Theon. He gasps as he presses down harder, mewling as the head of Robb's prick almost breaches him, and he thrusts faster and faster as if that will force it in.

 Robb's hands fly to Theon's hips immediately, trying to control him. _That's not right_. “Theon,” _stop that, this isn't how I wanted it,_ but didn't he promise Theon anything? _Whatever the client wants._ “You'll hurt yourself.”

“Whores always seem to live,” Theon grunts, even as he hisses with pain as Robb's prick almost drills inside him.

 _Does Theon like it when it hurts too?_ “They prepare themselves ahead of time,” Robb tells him. _They?_ “And they practice a lot.”

Theon ignores him, and it's so hard not to give in, to give him what he wants and fuck him bloody, but Robb can't–

“Theon, have you ever done this before?”

He laughs. “What, do you think the future lord of the Iron Islands would let himself be buggered by just anybody?”

_But that's all I am, just another whore, just a hole to fuck, I'm nothing special Theon you shouldn't let me–_

“I don't want to hurt you,” says Robb.

(He might be lying.)

“You won't,” says Theon, and Robb wants to hit him. _Why? Why are you so sure I won't hurt you?! I'm not! Or are you just that desperate for it, you fucking slut?_ “Robb, I know you. You'll never hurt me. You'll never hurt anyone.”

 _You don't know me at all._ “Theon...”

“Robb, _please_.”

How can he want it so badly? Robb knows he shouldn't, he knows there's something wrong, that desperate look in Theon's eyes is terrifying. Terrifying, and infuriating. What should he do? What in all seven hells is the right thing to do here?

 _Whatever the client wants,_ a voice from the back of his mind supplies. _You came here because you wanted him to have his way with you. This is his way. You promised him anything. You have a_ duty.

(He has no family, he has no honour, but he's stuck with the last one.)

“Theon.” And he squeezes Theon's hips hard enough to finally, finally make him stop. “...Come up here.”

“What?”

Right, that wasn't a very useful instruction. In fact it was a useless instruction. “Above my face,” he says, and like this he somehow manages to blush at how dirty the act is. “Sit above my face.”

Theon looks utterly bewildered, and is chewing his lip again, so Robb forces out another smile – a whore's smile, or a lord's smile, or a mummer's smile (mayhaps they're all the same thing). “Trust me,” he says.

_Do you trust me, Your Grace?_

Theon stares a moment, but Robb knows he _does_. Why? He has no idea. But Theon goes crawling, settling above Robb's mouth, burying his hands in his hair to keep himself steady. Robb's thigh twitches at the weight of Theon above him. _Are you sure you really know what you're getting yourself into?_ he hears Lya's voice, long ago (was it so long? Was it months, weeks, days?).

Robb smiles again just before he first swipes over Theon's arse with his tongue, even though he's sure Theon can't see him.

There's a gasp at the first touch, and Theon's hands tighten in his curls as he keens towards it. He's heavy, Robb struggles to breathe a little, but he hardly minds. _He's sensitive,_ he thinks as he does it again, listening to Theon pant and moan above him. He pulls back a little, teasing the hole with the tip of his tongue, but not pushing in, not yet.

“Drowned Gods, Robb,” Theon groans, and that is not a proper curse but with Theon keening like that above him, it's not the time to correct him, “Fuck, just like that. Right there. Shit, such a talented tongue. Seven hells...”

Robb pushes his tongue back and forth, rough and demanding, before curling it to push through the ring of muscles. Gods, Theon's so tight it almost _hurts._ Has he ever even put his fingers in here? Robb flinches, and realises he doesn't really want to know.

“Put it in deeper. No, deeper.” Robb does as he's told, shoving his tongue so deep in Theon he's almost biting on it. Gods, the taste of him... “Use – use your fingers. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck...”

He doubts Theon could bring himself to give that instruction a second time, and so he's rushing to obey, pulling back so he can suck on two fingers with wet slurping sounds. He gets them as slick as he can with just his mouth (they should have done this in Robb's chambers, where he could use Ros' oil and do this properly), and then pushes one in, slowly. At Theon's gasp – of pleasure, of pain, he's not sure (is there a difference?) - he presses his lips back to the hole, sucking lewdly in apology.

Theon is moaning incoherently, but one of his hands disappears from Robb's hair, and he hears the sound of Theon touching himself. _Gods, I can make him come like this, on my face while he's riding it._ The thought sends a thrill through him, makes him slip his second finger inside, and he delights in how Theon arches his back and gasps.

“Robb – Robb–” Theon cries, and Robb thinks _yes, say my name, no whoremonger could ever do that for me,_ as he slips his tongue in along with his two fingers. “Robb, fuck me. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, please.”

 _Why? I like this, I'm good at it, so why not do it forever?_ But no, whatever the client wants. He pulls back. “Are you sure?” he asks in his lordling voice, staring into Theon's sea-green eyes.

Theon closes those eyes like he can't stand to look before he nods his head. Robb can see the shame written all over him, and for some reason it's infuriating. _If you think this is shameful Theon..._

He drives his two fingers in deeper, and Theon cries out, helpless. _Stupid slut._ “Robb, please,” he begs.

“Sit on my cock.”

Theon gasps and hops off his fingers in a second. He's shaking as he settles above Robb's prick, grinding against the head of it desperately. His eyes are still closed. Robb doesn't really think he's ready ( _are you sure you know what you're getting yourself into?_ ), but it's not his place to question it.

“Theon.” Robb catches his hips as he rolls them like a two-copper harlot. “Theon, how long have you wanted this?”

He lets out a long moan. “Years,” he whispers, like he can barely say it out loud. Robb gulps.

“How long have you wanted Lord Stark's cock up your arse?”

“Robb–”

Lord Stark thrusts into him in one sure move.

Theon cries out, loudly, as he's suddenly full, fuller than he's ever been in his life (or so Robb thinks). He whines as Robb buries every last inch.

“Does that hurt?”

A moment's hesitation, then Theon nods. “Don't stop,” he says. “I don't mind.”

_You like it, you pervert._

Robb pushes him up with both hands, then slams him back down, makes him scream.

He expects Theon to fight back then, to pin his hands to the bed and set a pace while he rides, but he doesn't. He just lets Robb's violent thrusts wash over him, keens and mewls as it happens, doesn't even grab his hair again to keep himself steady. If he falls, he falls.

_When did you get this pathetic?_

Robb shakes his head. Gods, what is he thinking? This is Theon, his best friend since he was a child. He loves him, respects him, doesn't blame him for anything. Especially not the things he wants himself. He doesn't want to hurt Theon, he wants to take care of Theon.

( _Another fucking person to take care of?_ )

“Theon,” Robb whispers as his hands move, from Theon's hips to his arse, grabbing possessively. “Does it feel good? Tell me it feels good.” _Tell me what a good whore I am Theon, please._  

“Feels amazing, gods, Robb, please, more, give me more.” Theon is gasping as he keens towards Robb's rocking hips. _If you want it that much, hold me down and take it. Aren't you Ironborn? Don't you take what you want?_

Robb growls and suddenly sits up, pulling Theon close in his lap. Theon makes an alarmed noise and almost falls; he has to cling to Robb's shoulders to stay upright. It makes Robb think of how he hugged his sisters, Jon, and Mother (but not Father) before they went away.

“Is that what you want, Theon?” he asks, their faces so close together Theon must feel Robb's breath on his lips. “Me to fuck you so hard you don't remember your own name?”

Theon's eyes close again. “Robb – gods–”

“Look me in the eye, Theon. Look me in the eye and tell me what you want.”

He's being too rough, he _knows_ he's being too rough. He can see Theon wince with pain at every thrust. He almost hears a sob, but it sounds too far away to be Theon, it doesn't really sound like him – it sounds like an old man, or mayhaps a dog? _But I always like it when it hurts_ , he thinks, and just pulls Theon onto his cock harder.

Theon's eyes crack open. “Robb – please–”

_Don't call me that. You don't have the right._

“–Kiss me.”

Robb blinks, taken aback. _But I never want that._ He can't think about it long though, before Theon starts begging.

“Kiss me, kiss me Robb please, kiss–”

He gets his kiss, if only because Robb can't bear to listen to him plead for it like that.

Robb doesn't slow down though, he only thrusts harder and faster as Theon whimpers against his lips. _Is this what you want, Theon? Lord Stark to fuck you like a whore and kiss you like a maid? Make you his own little saltwife?_

(Lord Stark took Theon away from the only home he'd ever known, but never actually wanted him. Robb will become Lord Stark one day, and mayhaps he already has done.)

Why does it make him so angry? Theon wants to be loved, so what? Doesn't everyone? Robb _does_ love Theon, he loves him like his own brother, albeit a brother he wants to fuck (and he thinks of Jon, but it couldn't have been Jon, he hasn't seen Jon in months and mayhaps he never will again). If this is what Theon wants from him, why not give it with the same eagerness with which he gives his arse and his mouth?

 _But it's not what I want_ , but who cares what he wants? He's just a whore. This is not for him.

 _Gods, when did you get this pathetic?_ he asks himself this time. _You're such a selfish cunt, you can't even give the one boy who loves you more than anything and has never abandoned you what he needs because you're too obsessed with getting your greedy arse fucked?_

When he comes, Robb bites hard on Theon's lip and hisses “ _Slut_.” He cannot tell which one of them he's talking to.

Theon breaks the kiss and gasps at the feel of Robb spilling inside him. His eyes are closed again. As Robb finishes with a groan, Theon chews his lip, waiting for Lord Stark to do something.

Robb can't help but feel terribly guilty.

He does the only thing he can think of, which to wrap both hands around Theon's cock, and wank him off as soon as he can. He does it without a word, not trusting himself to speak, but he apologises with every trick he knows, stretching the folds, thumbing the head, kneading the balls. He wants to pull away, lean over and suck it, but before he can Theon spends across his chest with long, deep groan.

After that they both collapse onto the bed, laying side by side like husband and wife.

Robb still feels terrible. _I shouldn't have been that rough with him. Not if he didn't ask for it._ He's never felt so ashamed of himself after all his visits to the brothel, not even that time with the man who wasn't Jon. He has no idea how to apologise, but he has to try. It's his duty. When he looks at Theon however, the man has already rolled on his side.

“I'm sorry,” he says, not sure if Theon's even still awake. “I shouldn't have... called you that.”

A pause, and then Theon chortles. “Don't worry about it,” he says, and Robb is stunned by how casual his voice sounds. It's like they never fucked at all. “Heat of the moment, yeah? I understand. I mean, you should hear some of the things I've said when I've come.”

Robb blinks. It would be so easy to take that as that, to assume Theon's okay and put the whole thing out of his memory, but Robb knows him too well. However what he doesn't know is what to say. He never knows what to say. Besides, doesn't Theon have a point? Does Robb really have to feel so guilty? He didn't treat Theon any worse than Theon treats all his whores.

 _I wanted him to make a whore of me, and yet I made a whore of him._ But why? He doesn't want Theon to be his whore.

(What does he want from Theon, really?)

“Theon...” Robb chews his lip, fighting for his words. “...Please look at me.”

He rolls over, and looks Robb straight in the eye. He looks the same as ever – smug, cocky, willful, defiant. It's hard to imagine the whimpering boy riding his cock and begging to be kissed was the same person at all.

Robb still can't think of anything to say, and after a moment Theon lets out a long sigh, and looks away. “We shouldn't have done this, Stark,” he mutters.

_Stark?_

Wait, what?

Theon looks back at him, and Robb knows his confusion is written all over his face. “We should be riding south, little lord, not laying together.” What an oddly polite term, coming from Theon. “There's a fucking war on. We can't let there be any rumours about us. About you. If the Lannisters find out, they will use it against you, mark my words.”

Robb blinks. He knows, rationally, that Theon's completely correct. He should listen to him, like a wise older brother. He has no right to feel betrayed.

And yet–

 _You were the one person, Theon,_ he thinks before he can stop himself. _The one person who could just give me what I wanted and damn the consequences. The one person who made me feel like I had the right to want anything. The one person who loved_ me _more than Lord Stark._

(Lord Stark rots in a King's Landing dungeon. And Robb will become Lord Stark, someday, but first he has to rescue him, somehow, so that day is not today.)

He gulps back the knot in his stomach. “You're right,” he tells Theon.

Then he gets up and reaches for his shirt.

Theon seems confused. “Wait, where are you going?”

“I can't let the maids know I spent the whole night here. They'd get suspicious,” he says, like he didn't spend half the nights of his childhood in Theon's room without anyone ever thinking twice about it. “And besides: we should be riding south.”

“What, right now?” Theon asks, and Robb nods. “It's the middle of the night.”

“The Lannisters won't be expecting it then.” Frankly, Robb has no idea if they'd be expecting that; mayhaps he's predictable even to them. All he knows is that if he has to spend one more night in this godsforsaken castle he'll go mad, if he hasn't already.

“You're not exactly giving me much time to prepare.”

“The later I tell anyone, the less chance of word somehow getting out and back to them before we leave.”

“I'm not sure I'm really in a fit state to ride.”

Robb raises an eyebrow. “You seemed to handle it just fine before.”

He realises that was cruel, and expects to see Theon flinch. He doesn't, he just laughs, a little too loud. “Fair enough, I suppose,” he says. “Can you give me an hour or so to pack though? If we're going to war, I want to get there looking my best.”

“Of course. I have some last minute preparations to make too.” Robb pauses. “And I have to say goodbye to Rickon and Bran.” 

* * *

Bran is, understandably, not terribly understanding.

“But it's the middle of the night,” he says.

_Well I'm used to sneaking out in the middle of the night._

He tells Bran how the Lannisters have spies everywhere, and he seems to accept that. “They have more men than we do,” Bran says, and Robb forces himself not to flinch. Why should a boy so young even think about such things?

(Not that Robb's one to judge.)

“Can't I come with you?” Bran asks, and Gods, how Robb wants to let him. He wants to keep his little brother by his side, where he can look after him. He promised Mother he'd protect him – but he can't protect him anyway, he knows that, so what does it matter? Won't Bran be safer hidden behind the castle walls than out on a fucking battlefield?

(Deep down, Robb knows he doesn't want it for Bran's sake. He just doesn't want to lose what little family he has left.)

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. And until I return that will be you.” Because mayhaps that's all they are, Starks. There is no Bran, as there is no Robb, and there is no Eddard either – there is only Lord Stark, and the boy who will be Lord Stark, and the boy who will be Lord Stark if something happens to the boy who will be Lord Stark. If something happens to Bran, then it would be Rickon. Then sweet Sansa, then wild Arya. Mayhaps even Jon, if he ever comes back and they truly have run out of the rest of them. Mayhaps they are not a family at all, just a mummer's troupe, all waiting to be told they have to go out and perform the role of a lifetime.

(But if they're not really his family, why does he miss them so much?)

“Look after your brother,” Robb says, and he knows Bran can't keep that promise anymore than he could.

He is abandoning his little brothers, he knows that, but what choice does he have? It is abandon them, or abandon his sisters, and his father too. _It's not fair, no-one ever told me I'd have to choose._

Mayhaps, mayhaps it won't be so hard for Bran. Mayhaps Bran is just better than him. Gods, how he hopes so.

(He never did hire a replacement for Vayon Poole. Maybe Bran will.)

As he leaves to search for Rickon, to figure out where in the damn castle he hides, he thinks _Forgive me, Bran,_ knowing deep down the boy never will. _But you cannot possibly handle it worse than I did._


	12. battlefield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb should just go home, but Lord Stark, he cannot.
> 
> “The day will come when you need them to respect you, even fear you a little. Laughter is poison to fear. I will not do that to you, no matter how I wish to keep you safe.”
> 
> _Oh, how they'd laugh if they only knew._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short, somewhat transitional chapter this time. But enjoy!

He sees his mother again in the Riverlands, the lands where she was born, the lands where he was born. He just wants to hold her. He wants to be sure she's real, because he hasn't seen her in so long he was starting to think he might have dreamt her up.

 _You can't,_ he reminds himself. _The men are watching. A boy who goes running to his mother's arms is not a commander men follow._

She almost looks hurt when he doesn't come to her, but she has to understand. _I am trying Mother. I have to be the man you want me to be. If you only knew what I've done_ –

And yet he cannot help himself, he hugs her as soon as they're alone.

(When she orders his bannermen out, Theon has to be reminded that means him too. _No, let him stay,_ Robb wants to say, but he does not. He cannot let her know.)

“You've grown a beard,” she says. “I like it.”

_Thank the gods I didn't shave._

And then they are talking war. She does not want him out here, she's frightened, _why are you so concerned for my welfare now?_ “There was no-one else,” he tells her. _But there should have been, there should have been someone looking after me, I shouldn't have had to do this alone Mother why didn't you come back?_

She tells him he could have sent any man, Bolton or Umber or Karstark or even Theon. _No, I couldn't have sent Theon. That would have killed me._ She cannot understand.

“They are not Starks.” Because that is what he is, he is Lord Stark, that is all he will ever be.

“They are men, Robb.” But he must be a man, there is no other man of their house left, Father rotting in the Red Keep, Bran and Rickon just boys, Uncle Benjen on the wall and Jon – Jon's not even of their House, and he's no older than Robb is (or is he?).

“...Are you sending me back to Winterfell?” he asks, and he's never been so frightened in his life. _No Mother, you can't, I'll go mad there I'll do it again please don't leave me–_

She sighs. “I should. You ought never to have left,” she says and he thinks _Well neither should you._ “Yet I dare not, not now. You have come too far. Someday these lords will look to you as their liege.” _It seems that day is today, Mother._ “If I pack you off now, like a naughty child being sent to bed without supper, they will remember, and they will laugh about it in their cups.”

Of course. Robb should just go home, but Lord Stark, he cannot.

“The day will come when you need them to respect you, even fear you a little. Laughter is poison to fear. I will not do that to you, no matter how I wish to keep you safe.”

_Oh, how they'd laugh if they only knew._

“You have my thanks, Mother,” he says in his lordling voice, because it's the only way he can bury the mix of pain and shame and relief that swirls through his breast.

“You are my firstborn, Robb. I have only to look at you to remember the day you came into this world, red-faced and squalling.” The day she gave him his name, a king's name. The name he sold a thousand times, for something–

(At some point, she will ask how many men he has. She will not ask how many men he's had.)

She strokes his hair, and he wants to lean toward it, but he can't – he has to stand and walk away. _Theon did that,_ he thinks. _You shouldn't touch me Mother, I'm dirty._

Then he asks about the Eyrie, about Lord Tyrion, about the Knights of the Vale. Matters of war and trade and hostages. _Why were you gone so long, Mother?_ She tells him no, his Aunt Lysa will not help. Family, duty, honour – that means nothing to her.

(Later, Mother will tell him more about her time in the Eyrie, about his Aunt Lysa, madder than any rumour said. She will laugh so he won't see how it shocked and scared her, and he will do the same. _Mayhaps it runs in the family._ She will tell him about his cousin, young Sweetrobin, still suckling at the teat at Bran's age – poor Bran, all alone in that big castle. He will remember how she said her own sister threatened to kill her if she tried to take her son away. He will wish he did not feel he knew this aunt he's never met so well.)

_She was born a Tully, I was born a Stark. If family, duty, honour mean nothing to her, why should they mean anything to me?_

No, he can't afford to think like that. But he cannot stop himself, he's so frightened. He looks to his mother, he can't think of anything else – she is a Tully, and a Stark; family, duty, honour, they mean everything to her (not enough to make her stay, but enough to make her leave). He is ashamed of himself. He is always ashamed of himself. _Gods, Mother, what would you think?_

Even now, he sees something cold in her eyes.

Her voice is still soft. “What are you so afraid of, Robb?”

He's afraid of them killing Father. He's afraid of them killing his sisters. He's afraid of how he felt that day in the forest when a wildling held his knife to Bran's throat. _Mayhaps I will be relieved. Mayhaps I will be glad when half my family's dead, for then I cannot owe them anything._

She does not lie to him, she does not soothe his pain with gentle words. He is too old for that. He reminds him of the Targaryen children, and that is what Robb was so afraid of, that he could not protect his brother from a death crueller than anything some wildling could devise.

Lord Stark does not lie to himself either. He must fight, and he must win. He has no choice.

When he tells her his plans, she looks proud of him. He wants to tear the look off her face.

* * *

To win a battle he must cross a bridge, and to cross a bridge he must make an ally, and to make an ally he must marry a woman, and to marry a woman he must fuck her. Mother does not say that last part aloud, but it is the only thing he can think of. _But I said I wouldn't do it again._

No, this is different – now he whores himself for a whole bridge, not just a few coppers. He didn't make enough in all his time at the brothel to just buy it. Really, does this not solve all his problems? Whoring is his _duty_ now.

It's not hard to accept. But Mother also says they want Arya's hand too, and that gives him pause. He can whore himself easily, but his sisters? _They are better than me_ , he thinks, and no he can't do that, he has to protect them (he sees Sansa half-naked and crying, Ros' bloody body, and Cass' angry glare).

But what else can he do? Let the Lannisters murder them? He doesn't even know if Arya's still alive, Sansa's letter didn't say a word about her – and Robb cannot understand why (or mayhaps he can, mayhaps he saw that and thought of how he felt when that wildling had his knife to Bran's throat, mayhaps he thought _it runs in the family_ ).

 _You have to protect them_ , and it's Cass' voice who says it.

So he agrees.

Theon drinks with him that night, a smirk playing upon his face. They have not spoken about what happened just before they left Winterfell, but Robb can see how Theon wears it beneath his silk shirt and velvet doublet. He hears it sometimes too – Theon fucking some camp follower until she screams, late at night in the next tent over. Robb doesn't know if Theon means to tempt him or just to prove something, but he tries to convince himself it doesn't matter. He will not give in, he cannot. Not even as he writhes and ruts until he spills on his sheets, and remembers Ros' loud moans and kind eyes.

“So, a married man,” Theon says, and technically Robb is just betrothed but he supposes it is much the same (he is and will be a Frey, like he is and will be Lord Stark). “Jeyne will be crushed.”

Robb blinks. _Jeyne?_ (He sees eyes like honey.) It takes him a moment to remember – of course, Sansa's best friend, Arya's worst enemy, Poole's daughter. Gods, is she still alive? He knows her father is dead. Someone will have to hire a replacement for him now. Jeyne always used to simper around him, she dreamed of marrying him, even if she knew it was impossible. But she thought he was the prince from a song. Gods, what would she think of him?

“She might have bigger things to worry about,” Robb says, and Theon frowns. Does he know Vayon Poole is dead? Did he ever even speak to Vayon Poole? Robb can't remember.

“Aye, but she might get a little jealous.”

Really, would she stop in the middle of her grief to be jealous? Who would do that?

 _And what about you, Theon?_ he almost asks, but he doesn't. Instead he reaches for his wine, and convinces himself it doesn't matter. 

* * *

They capture the Kingslayer in that battle, and Robb is struck by how handsome he is. Of course, he always knew the man was handsome, he is a Lannister after all – and he's met the man before, at Winterfell. But they never stood so close.

 _This is the man who crippled Bran, who almost killed him._ Jaime only smirks at him, even in chains, and Robb has to think of his little brother's near-dead body (and his mother's dead eyes watching over it) to stop himself getting hard.

“Kill him, Robb,” says Theon. “Take his head off.”

The Kingslayer seems to disgust him. He disgusts Robb also.

But they can't, he's too valuable a captive, even if he murdered Karstark's sons, even if he almost murdered Bran. If they kill him, they cannot trade him, and the Lannisters still have Father and Sansa and Arya (do they have Arya?) – Robb needs Jaime Lannister alive, even if the thought of the man's sword slicing through his soldiers makes him sick. The Kingslayer is led away in chains, and Robb dreads the thought of having to see him again, to look at that smiling mouth, that golden hair, those green eyes. Of imagining what it would be like to look up as he sucked on the man who tried to kill his brother's cock.

Theon's sea-coloured eyes watch with contempt as Lannister fades into the distance, and Robb has to turn, the rest of it starting to throb in his head. The battle, and how many men died there, the men who died guarding _him_ because he is their liege lord, and the force he sent to deal with Lord Tywin–

That night Robb wakes from a nightmare of being fucked by two thousand corpses. That sort of dream should put the thought of sex out of his head for days, and yet he craves a hard (and warm) cock so much he can't breathe.

 _They have whores here,_ he thinks as he ruts against the sheets, _and all my bannermen are asleep. I could sneak out, disguise myself as one of the camp followers, let all the common soldiers fuck me and be back before dawn._

No he couldn't. They might just be soldiers, but they're _his_ soldiers, one of them would recognise him eventually. And he certainly can't ask any of his bannermen. This isn't like the brothel, where he could tell a thousand men he would never see again what a whore he is. If the men here see him as a whore, they'll never see him as anything but a whore. And he needs them to see him as something else – as their _lord_.

(He could ask Theon for it, but–)

 _I could make the Kingslayer do it,_ he realises with a thrill. _I could bring him to my tent and order him to fuck me so hard I bled and then to never tell a soul. He wouldn't have a choice, if he didn't I'd have his head. He'd be so angry, and he'd take every last bit of it out on me; he'd savage me, he'd almost kill me. But he couldn't, for if he did he'd be doomed too. I could come for one of these Lannisters, I could make the man who would have killed Bran come inside me–_

Robb stops. What in all seven hells is he thinking? He wouldn't force Jaime Lannister to fuck him on pain of death, that's not who he is. _A whore perhaps, but not a raper._ And it would be Jaime Lannister. The man who almost killed Bran. He couldn't, and how can he possibly want to?

(He remembers the dream he had of Ser Jaime's father holding him down for every man in their army. He remembers the look on his father's face.)

And yet he closes his eyes and ruts his way to spending thinking of it, at least at first. After awhile his thoughts are drowned out by the sound of distant moans, some nameless cheap tart faking her pleasure as Lord Greyjoy has his way with her.

Robb comes, rolls over, and tries to sleep. 

* * *

It's not easy, but Robb is somehow coping. He fights his war, he wins his battles, and he does not suck one single cock.

Then Father's killed.


	13. placemaps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's already failed. Father is dead. Arya might be dead. Does he really think he'll have any better luck with Sansa?
> 
> And _Lord Stark_ is dead. Robb will never be Lord Stark, not truly, not like his father was, it would be an insult to his memory to try. So why not? Why not let every man in the North hear him scream in pleasure as his father's hostage has his way with him? Why not let every man in the North have his way with him, show them what he's really good for? Why not let his mother know what she birthed, something coated in a Tully leaf but all the Tully scraped out inside, and all the Stark, he is just an emptiness, a void. _Nothing but a hole for cock._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is... quite possibly an anticlimax. It also comes across like an ending, but rest assured, we've got a few chapters to go.

Mother finds him first, crying and screaming as he strikes at a tree. _A child throwing a tantrum._ But what does it matter, now Father is dead, now he has already failed, now he is Lord Stark forever and even less of it than he was before? She holds him like a child too, as he sobs in her arms. _I'll kill them all_ , he says, and he knows he can't truly – he can't even kill the Kingslayer, he still needs him – but he wants it, more than he's ever wanted anything in his life, he wants to kill Lannisters. More than he wants to fuck them.

“First the girls,” Mother reminds him. Of course, his sisters. _Family, duty, honour_. “Then we'll kill them all.”

It's a Mother's promise to her child, like when he was nine and he accidentally set Sansa's hair on fire, but Mother told him not to worry, Sansa would forgive him because it would grow back twice as long and beautiful. It's a lie, and he is not young enough to believe it, but he is young enough to pretend he does.

He composes himself long enough for her to lead him back to his tent, then he lays in her lap for an hour, and sobs.

Once the hour passes and his tears start to dry, his wits recover. He cannot do this. The men cannot see his tears, but they can certainly hear them – and she can see them. He is Lord Stark now (he will never be Lord Stark). A blubbering child will be followed by no man, and a blubbering child is not what his mother needs to save her daughters.

So he sends her away. She tries to hide it and he tries to hide from it, but the hurt look in her eye is inescapable.

* * *

He's not sure how long passes – long enough for the sun to set, but he can't tell how long that takes. Mayhaps he drinks, mayhaps he drinks too much, but he really doesn't remember. He expects someone to come looking for him, but no-one does, and outside the grief and rage is transforming into joy and celebration: a thousand toasts to the life of Ned – sorry, _Lord_ – Stark.

Suddenly the door starts to shake. Robb blinks. Is someone trying to knock? The person curses as they realise how dumb that was, then just push open the door without waiting for Robb to tell them to come in. Is one allowed to do that to a Lord?

One is, because one is Theon, and Robb would allow him anything (even if he didn't want it). For a long moment they stare at one another, and Robb knows he shouldn't, knows he should send Theon away like he did his mother before he does something he'll regret.

But Theon just _stares_ at him, eyes wide and red like he's been crying, and Robb breaks.

When he runs into Theon's arms, Theon is almost knocked over by the force of his body. But he isn't. He catches Robb and holds him steady, lets Robb bury his head in his neck.

“Robb... I'm so sorry.”

 _Why?_ Robb wonders. _Why aren't you relieved? Someone took Lord Stark's head before he could take yours._

But it doesn't matter, because this is Theon, still holding him, still wanting him, still loving him even now, after everything Robb's done, after the way Robb treated him, after they failed so utterly to rescue Father. _He hasn't left_ , Robb thinks. _Mayhaps he never will._

He finds himself kissing Theon's skin without really thinking about it.

Theon goes very still, but he does not pull away. “Robb, what are you doing?”

Robb doesn't answer that. Really, he would have thought it was obvious. He leans up and sucks on Theon's earlobe, as his hands, shaking and eager (he's always desperate) reach for Theon's laces. “Robb, stop it,” Theon sounds more annoyed than anything, but Robb doesn't pay attention. Theon wants him, Robb knows he does. He's always wanted him, he said as much, _I want you more than anyone_ – Theon's right, he's the only one who truly wants _him._ Those bannermen out there, they want Lord Stark, and those men at the brothel, they want a pretty slut with high cheekbones, Mother, she wants her son, and Bran and Rickon and Sansa and Arya (and Jon?), they want their brother. But Theon wants him, Robb, as he is, weak and needy and whorish and bitter, but never able to just let himself go. He's the only one who does. The only one who ever could. Robb will do whatever Theon wants, he'll fuck him again, and he'll do it right this time, all gentle touches and words of love. That is what Theon wants, right?

“Robb, someone will notice,” he says, and Robb doesn't answer. The men are all drunk on wine and grief, and they are so very loud. “Someone will hear–”

Theon gasps as Robb tears his breeches open and fists his cock. Hard, hot and wonderful, just like he always wanted. _So?_ He's already failed. Father is dead. Arya might be dead. Does he really think he'll have any better luck with Sansa?

And _Lord Stark_ is dead. Robb will never be Lord Stark, not truly, not like his father was, it would be an insult to his memory to try. So why not? Why not let every man in the North hear him scream in pleasure as his father's hostage has his way with him? Why not let every man in the North have his way with him, show them what he's really good for? Why not let his mother know what she birthed, something coated in a Tully leaf but all the Tully scraped out inside, and all the Stark, he is just an emptiness, a void. _Nothing but a hole for cock._

(But his sisters, he already feels like he's lost them and yet he has to rescue them, and his brothers, he can't leave Bran behind to this he's just a child, but he already has, and his mother, she _came back_ he can't leave her–)

“I don't care.”

Theon slaps Robb hard across the face.

He goes reeling, but he does not fall to the ground this time, he catches himself with a hand on his writing desk, over the Westerlands. For a single, blissful moment he thinks Theon's given in, as about to give him what he really wants, but from the look in his eyes no, that's not it at all.

“Have you lost your mind?!” and Robb would understand if he shouted it, but no, he hisses, like he's afraid of being heard. It makes Robb sick. _Probably,_ he wants to say.

He does not say anything, he just stares as he waits for Theon to continue. This seems to unsettle Theon, and he runs his hands through his hair in frustration. “You can't just _do_ this, Robb,” he says. _Yes I can. I shouldn't, but I can._ “Fucking – anyone could have seen us. _Jaime Lannister_ could have seen us. How long do you think it would take for word to reach King's Landing? What would your sisters think?”

Robb still doesn't say anything, but he flinches. Theon's right, Robb knows he's right. His wits are returning, since he's not managed to fuck them away yet. He pulls himself up, and goes to sit in his chair.

Theon follows him, gently touching his hair. Robb leans to it. If this is the most he can have...

“Robb. You are Lord Stark now.”

He pulls away.

Theon sighs. “Fuck. I mean–” Robb should say something, but he can't. The Others take it. He doesn't even want to look at Theon anymore. “I know you're upset about your father.” _Really, you don't say?_ “But it's not over. This is a war now, Robb, you can't back down. Your family needs you. Your subjects need you. The North needs you. I – Drowned God, your father still needs you. Do you really want to let him go unavenged?”

“Of course not,” he says. _But I am the worst possible person to try to avenge him._

“Then don't let him! Go out there and kill every fucking Lannister you can get your hands on.”

“What? Should I slaughter the Kingslayer here and now, and let my sisters perish?”

Theon shrugs. “Alright, you might have to wait awhile,” he says. “I'm not exactly one for patience, Robb. If it were up to me we would have chopped that golden prick's cock off the second we caught him. But I'm not Lord Stark, Robb. You are. There are things you cannot do.” He pauses. “Such as whore.”

Robb looks up at him, stunned – and furious. _You were the one person..._

He understands now. Theon never cared about him, not really. He cared about _Lord Stark_ , the boy who could be holding a sword at his throat, but wasn't. He didn't care about anything Robb did because it just didn't matter to him – no matter how much Robb tried to degrade himself, he'd always be above his prisoner. Theon just wanted Robb to make him feel safe. He used him for shelter, for protection, even when he _knew_ Robb was the last person who could offer anyone those things.

 _Lord Stark could have killed you for half your life,_ Robb thinks, _and yet you still love him more than me._

“...Fuck you, Greyjoy.”

And Theon smirks.

“Not tonight, my lord.”

Robb gulps, and Theon raises his hands in surrender, before he turns to leave. Probably off to buy some girl to spend his frustrations on, in, and over.

 _I don't need him_ , Robb thinks. _I don't need anyone. I just need this._

He could go out there right now and offer himself to every single one of his lords, their soldiers and their squires and whoever wanted a piece. He could lie down in the mud and let a whole army fuck him until he bled. He'd be dead before they were half-done with him, but Lord Stark was already dead, wasn't he? Or mayhaps he could go to the Kingslayer. Yes, commit the ultimate treason with the man who started this war in the first place. Wasn't that what Lord Stark was beheaded for, treason?

Robb cannot bring himself to stand, however. He doesn't have the energy to stand anymore, he doesn't have the energy to do anything. He knows he will find no release like that, from his men or his enemies, no more than he found it in Theon tonight, or on the night they left Winterfell, or that time at the brothel with the man who wasn't – in the morning, he will just be as shame-ridden and regretful as ever, but it will have consequences this time. He has not changed: weak and needy and whorish and bitter, but he still cannot let himself go. He is not a lord, just a mummer playing one, but that doesn't mean he gets to stop playing.

He reaches for his wine again. If he was not drinking too much before, he will do now. He drinks until he falls asleep on top of his maps, cheek pressed against the Wall.

And so Robb Stark spends the night he learns his father is dead completely alone. 

* * *

When he wakes he sees red locks and kind eyes above him. “Mother?”

As his vision starts to focus, he realises it's not Mother. This woman's hair is curlier, her clothes far more revealing, and she wears a teasing smirk so unlike Catelyn Tully's careful smile. He blinks. “Ros?”

“Good morning, my lord,” she chirps. His head throbs and the cheerfulness of her voice makes him wince. She giggles. “Rough night?”

Despite his ache, he pulls himself upright. “You went south,” he says.

“We are in the south.”

He glares at her. _You know what I meant._ She sighs. “Mayhaps it didn't suit me. Mayhaps it was too hot, too stuffy, too full of politics. Mayhaps I got homesick.”

Mayhaps. But he doubts it. “Or?”

“Mayhaps I'm a spy,” she smirks. “Mayhaps the Lannisters got ahold of me, realised I had some very interesting secrets to tell. I mean, rumours have not been their strongest weapon so far – the commonfolk already say you turn into a wolf at night. Mayhaps they sent me north to tell everyone exactly what you turn into at night.”

He should panic, he should try to bribe her, or threaten her, make it worth her while to keep quiet and not worth her while to speak – and yet... “But you wouldn't,” he says. “You have a sense of honour of your own.”

A pause, and then she smiles. “Indeed I do,” she says. “You and I have a fair amount in common.”

He flinches and looks away. Honour, really? After how he acted last night? _I would have let everyone know,_ he thinks. _I would have let Theon fuck me, I would have let the whole camp fuck me, I would have let the Lannisters know it's just a common whore they're fighting and I would have let them kill my sisters._

Theon stopped him. And Robb got angry at him for it. Because he's angry at Theon for so many things, why not that?

“You did this to me,” he says, and Ros looks bemused – but he cannot be sure which one of them he's talking too. “You put these thoughts in my head. You made me want to be – to be–”

“A whore? Sweetling, we both know that's not true. I didn't do this. And neither did he.” He doesn't have to ask who she means. “I'm also just a whore, m'lord. I did my job. I gave you what you wanted.”

 _And him?_ he wants to ask, but he doesn't.

A silence falls between them and Robb looks back down, at the map, from his sisters down in King's Landing to his brothers back at Winterfell, himself and his mother in the Riverlands where they were born, and Jon all the way at the Wall. And Father, where has Father gone? Mayhaps there was no Father, no Ned Stark, only ever the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North – and yet Robb still remembers him. He remembers his father ruffling his hair, hugging him warmly, telling him he loved him. All those things he did not do the last time they spoke.

“You didn't say goodbye,” he tells Ros.

She flinches a little, and gives an apologetic shrug. “It was all a bit rushed. It still might turn out to be a terrible mistake,” she says. “And did I really owe you that?”

He thinks it over. “Not really,” he says. “But it would have been nice.”

She sighs. “Well, sorry.”

“That's alright,” he says. “I lived.”

She nods, and stands to leave. Just before she walks out of the tent however, she pauses, and chuckles to herself. “You know, I could make this easier on you,” she says. “I could have a word with the camp followers. I have a way with my fellow whores, even Cass liked me. I think, if I explained, they wouldn't mind sneaking you in among their ranks.”

Robb hesitates. He wants to. Gods, how he wants to. It seems so easy, to get it the way he once did, on his knees somewhere dark and secret from men who have no idea who he is. It would be a release, to be treated like that, some deviant following the great lord and all his little lords about for a few coppers and a good fuck. He's already failed, what does it matter?

And yet. The Lannisters still have his sisters. His started this war, he can hardly stop now. And Theon – he said he'd do anything Theon wanted, and what Theon wants is for him to do the right thing. That's what everyone wants, except himself, but he is not himself, is he? He is Lord Stark.

He may have failed his father, but he has so many more people left to fail.

His eyes go again to the maps, but not to anywhere in particular. _Where did you go, Father?_ Because he is not gone, not really. Robb knows he'll still here somewhere, watching and judging. Mayhaps the new Lord Stark is where he is now. _I always said I'd let anyone do it. I'd take any man inside me. Now it's time to prove it._

It's funny. All that fuss about him whoring himself, about what his mother and father would think of him, how they'd never do such a thing – but he was not born because his parents loved one another, or even lusted after one another. His brothers and sisters were, but him, no – he was born because his grandfathers sold their children to one another, nothing more. Armies and castles might not be so obvious a payment as copper and silver, but they are still a payment. Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully whored themselves because it was their duty, but that doesn't make them not whores. That man who wasn't Jon was right – one more whelp conceived because someone couldn't keep it in their pants, they _couldn't_ , honour demanded otherwise. And he ended up the same place most of them did.

_But what chance did I have? It runs in the family._

He does not look up at Ros when he answers. “No.”

“No?”

Then he does look. Kind eyes, stern eyes – she has Theon's teasing smirk, and his own red curls, but it was his mother he saw in her. It always was. His mother, but if she could understand.

“No.”

Ros smiles and nods – she looks _proud_. “You'll be a very good lord one day, Robb Stark.”

“Today? Could that day be today? Because that would help a lot.”

She laughs. “We shall see,” she says, and when she leaves he bites his lip so he will not call after her.


	14. northern lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King in the North.
> 
>  _No, you've got it wrong, there's been some mistake_ he wants to say, but he doesn't think anyone would hear him over the shouting. It's like some bawdy farce, the type Father would show such disdain to have playing on his streets – one about a rentboy who just so happens to look just like the young prince, who is mistaken for him just as the King is dying, and antics ensue as they try to swap back in time. The Whore in the North, that has a ring to it. But King?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH GODS, THIS CHAPTER'S SO LONG. We are getting toward the end here folks!

The King in the North.

 _No, you've got it wrong, there's been some mistake_ he wants to say, but he doesn't think anyone would hear him over the shouting. It's like some bawdy farce, the type Father would show such disdain to have playing on his streets – one about a rentboy who just so happens to look just like the young prince, who is mistaken for him just as the king is dying, and antics ensue as they try to swap back in time. The Whore in the North, that has a ring to it. But King?

But everyone believes it, even Theon, who kneels before him the way Robb (might have) knelt before him behind that wall, in that forest, under that table. “Am I your brother, now and always?” he asks, and Robb thinks  _what sort of brothers would do the things we have?_ But then he thinks of Jon, the man who wasn't Jon, and agrees anyway, because Theon is, still, his brother – with Jon on the Wall and Bran and Rickon back at Winterfell (he might never see any of them again), Theon is the only brother he has left. Robb needs him, in whatever capacity he can have him – even if Theon never touches him again.

He looks around and sees his mother. She looks so frightened. Of course she is, for if they do this they truly have begun a war, one greater and bloodier than the one the Lannisters started for them – he fights not only to protect his land and his family, but to liberate it, to liberate them all. It would not have been so hard to wound the Lannisters until they thought holding on to Lord Stark (let alone two girls little more than children) wasn't worth it, but the whole North? To reduce the Seven Kingdoms to six?

(Why is always six?)

But in her eyes, he doesn't just see fear. He sees _pride_. She looks around and smiles, as if to say _Look what you've done. Look what you've become Robb. These men all think you a king._ He cannot look away. _You were always a king to me._

 _No, mother, you're wrong, please fix this–_ and for a second he sees her hair white and her face red.

But what can he say? The men are just too loud, nobody would hear him. Mayhaps he should show them instead. Crawl on his hands and knees and offer them what he's offered hundreds of men – that would clear things up. But his mother – he remembers the last words his father spoke to him, as far as Robb knows, his final words: _I know I'm asking a lot of you, Robb,_ _but there's no-one more ready for the task._

He already let his father down. Can he do the same to his mother?

So he doesn't really do anything. He just stands there while another gang of men calls him one more filthy name: _the King in the North, the King in the North, the King in the North!_

* * *

He's shaking by the time he makes it back to his tent. No-one gets close enough to see, they all stand at some distance from _their king_ , some even bow as he goes by. That only makes him shake more.

The shaking doesn't stop as he sits there, reaching for wine to soothe his nerves – it only makes them worse. Will someone come see him? Mother, probably, eventually, but he does not know when that will be (she will probably ride back to Winterfell soon, but when?). Will Theon? No, not after what happened last time, he probably thinks it wise to keep some distance. Robb flinches. _Wise_. Since when does Theon Greyjoy think about what is wise?

Since whenever Robb Stark stopped thinking about it, he supposes.

(But Robb never stops thinking–)

He sighs, chews his lip, and smacks his hand upon the desk. The smack of sound and snap of pain is satisfying, but it only lasts an instant. He does it again, harder this time, and it brings a faint buzz to his ear – but it is not the relief he's used to (the relief he hasn't been used to in weeks, months even.)

 _I cannot even hurt myself properly_.

His breath shudders as he pulls his hand back to himself, watching it redden from the blow. He is going mad (he went mad long ago). But he needs it. Oh gods, he needs it. If he does not let some man use and hurt him now he will only do it to himself, and he doesn't trust himself with that. But who does he trust? Theon, but Theon won't, not after–

(Theon might not have before.)

Who else? No-one. Theon was the only one he ever trusted, Theon was the only one he knew, Theon was one of the few who's name he could say. That was the _point_. To give himself over to every man who wanted, every man with a spare copper, to be worthless and disposable and used. If the men killed him, who would care? No-one. That's what he wanted. That's what being a whore meant to the little lordling. No wonder Cass hated him.

He cannot do it again, he knows that. He'd never get away with it. He'd be seen. But really, can he get away with it now? Ros may not have been sent north to spy (Ros might not have been sent north at all; he tried asking Theon if he'd seen her and he was bewildered. _She went south,_ he said. Robb fought the urge to say _we are in the south._ ), but one of the other girls – at least some of them must have come as camp followers with their clients, surely one of them will recognise him eventually? Or mayhaps he is making excuses. Because he wants to, gods how he wants to.

There is always the Kingslayer. Robb could force him to keep quiet. Or could he? He doesn't know the man well, mayhaps death means little to him compared to the urge to humiliate his enemy, end the war early and keep his family safe from it (why _did_ he throw Bran from that tower?). Is it worth the risk? 

 _Of course it isn't worth the risk._ It was never worth the risk, he always knew that, he always told himself that, and yet he never stopped, until the war and the south and his mother stopped him. But he has stopped now, and he cannot start again, no matter how much he wants it; he is the King in the North, he is, he is–

* * *

He's still shaking as he makes his way to the outskirts of camp. Gods, it's cold here, away from the fires – no matter how much he's had to drink.

(The Kingslayer goes unmolested. Robb visited his cage briefly, saw him sinking into filth – gods, how Robb wanted that – but something about the look in his eye was frightening. Robb wasn't scared he might live up to his title, no, that would only make him want the man more. For some reason he was afraid Ser Jaime might reject him. That risk did not seem worth it.)

He pulls his cloak tighter around him. He did not bring any of his cheap ones when he left Winterfell, he did not think he would need them, so he relies on the dark and the men's distraction to disguise him. He's not really thinking.

Grey Wind is not with him, even though the wolf whined at him. But that would be too obvious. Maybe a tenth of the men following him have seen his face, but they've all heard of his wolf.

He takes the scenic route, to where the common soldiers go, the cheaper and more desperate of the followers – he does not want to run into Theon here. Mayhaps he will not fit in, too pretty, too well-fed, too highborn looking, but shouldn't that make it easier to find a client? Even in the night air, the scent of seed and wine is striking. He can hear grunts and moans where the fucking takes place in the dirt, or against trees, for everyone to see – if it weren't so dark.

For a long moment he's frozen. How is he meant to find a client if they can't even see him? (Of course, none of his first clients did see him).

As his eye adjusts to the dark, he sees them. A man – strong looking, but rather short – looming over a boy, about Robb's age, blond and tall, offering a copper coin. _So there are boys here too, they aren't beaten away from the decent whores._ The boy seems to be weighing his options, then shakes his head with a teasing smirk.

The man's body tenses and Robb tenses with it, afraid something will happen, that we will have to reveal himself and protect this boy from an enraged customer. But instead the man just mutters a curse and walks away. Robb sighs with relief. Then he realises the man is walking towards him.

He is little more than three feet away when he stops and sees Robb. Robb is still frozen. “Do you want something, boy?”

His mouth hangs open, struggling for words. _You. Yes, you'll do. Fuck me here and now, on my hands and knees, into the dirt like all the other whores. I'm not fussy, I won't turn away a few coppers like that blond boy. Please._

The words don't come, however. All his skills and seduction is not one of them. He just stands there, gawping like a dead fish, but after a moment a smirk starts to spread across the man's face. Relief floods through him. _He knows. Thank the gods–_

“Your Grace?”

Robb spins around, and sees a girl behind him with a curious look. It's like a a bubble bursting, or perhaps being crashed over by an ocean wave.

“Were you looking for some company for the evening?”

 _Well, she's not wrong._ They know. They all know. He can feel them all starting to look, eager to see their _king_ , standing among the commonfolk like he belongs there. Gods, what was he thinking? How could he be so selfish? He's never seen this girl before in his life, but she recognised him, someone was always going to recognise him – he's lucky she got there before he had a cock down his throat.

What does he do now? He can't just run, at best, they will think he is a helpless green boy who wanted to make a man of himself, but lost his nerve at the last minute – a humiliation at the last moment he needs a humiliation. And if one of the girls _was_ here, someone who knew why he really ran – he needs an excuse – but how can he–

He is still staring at the girl, he realises, and she is staring back.

There's something fearful in her eyes, and it almost pains Robb. _I want to be hurt, not to hurt you,_ he thinks (and then he tries not to think of Theon that night at Winterfell, what he called him, and how Theon pretended it didn't even matter). But no, that's not what this girl is afraid of. She's not scared he'll hurt her, she's scared he'll reject her.

Will he?

 _You must. You can't, a girl – there could be a child, what would Mother think, what would_ Jon _think–_

They'd both think very little of it. But, he realises, they'd think more of that than they would think of what he really came here for. Does he have a choice? If he leaves here without a girl–

She's short and slender, and the cut of her dress makes it very clear why she's here. She must be freezing. He thinks she's another blonde, although it's hard to tell in the dark.

With a shaking hand, he takes hers. Off they go, whore and king, linked.

* * *

He leads her back to his tent by the scenic route again. It will not be such a problem if they're spotted, but he'd still rather not be, he'd still rather not have to face his mother. She does not complain, nor does she say anything at all. This puts him on edge for some reason.

Once they arrive at his tent, he can finally see her in the low lamplight. She is blonde, her hair an ashy colour, eyes a muted brown – somewhere between soot and embers. Her dress is a dying pink, and he can see the gooseflesh running up and down her arms.

“You must be cold,” he says. “Would you like some wine?”

“No thank you.”

He really doesn't know what to say to her. They both know why she's here, and surely it shouldn't be so difficult, it never was for his clients, but he can't be like them – not after Theon–

“Is this your first time?”

He blushes. What should he even say? “...In a sense,” and he hopes she will not ask for further details. Yes, this is the one thing he has not done. Lain with a woman the way he would lay with his wife. _There could be a child_. Gods, no, he can't do this – but what choice does he have? He's already made the decision. He has already made so many decisions.

Mayhaps he could pay her to spend the hour, and just not touch her, but what if she spoke of it? Rumours spread.

She's coming closer, a small smile across her face, and he realises she is very pretty. Delicate-looking, she almost reminds him of the Children of the Forest from Old Nan's stories. Her skin has been soothed by shelter and lamplight, it is soft and pretty and pink, a clear pink not like her dirty gown. He wants to take that off her. He wants to see her naked.

When she's close enough to touch him, she raises a soft hand to his jaw. He flinches. 

“Sorry,” she says, a little embarrassed. “Am I – not to your liking–?”

“Wh– no, no, that's not it at all,” he gives a reassuring laugh, that doesn't really seem to reassure her, and he supposes she knows he's lying – but he shouldn't be, because she's _beautiful_ and he just wants to see her, but she can't give him what he wants and– “I'm just nervous, is all.”

He doesn't think she believes him, but she smiles anyway. “Don't worry, I was the same my first time,” she says, and he thinks back to that first night at the brothel, how his hands shook at the thought of what he was about to do, and somehow after all this time it's like he's that foolish green boy again. “I was terrified I was going to get pregnant.”

That stops Robb in his tracks.

He has to step away. “Oh gods, I can't,” he mutters, more to himself than her.

“Oh – no, sorry, I shouldn't even have mentioned it–"

“No, it's not your fault, just – what would they say?”

It takes a long moment for her to speak again. “...Is this because of your brother?”

He looks up, taken aback. She looks away, embarrassed. Rare in their profession. “I do know something about your family, Your Grace.”

Robb chews his lip. She understands why this might be so hard for him, but could she understand - “Mayhaps... mayhaps we should not take it so far,” she says, but she's coming towards him again, wearing that soft smile. Her hands drift to his laces and he does not stop them. “There are all sorts of places you could spill, Your Grace, just not in my belly.”

He groans. Of course, all the places he's been spent in, on, over; his face, his mouth, his arse. She has all the same bits. He sees her knees bend as if she's about to kneel – another one – and he stops her with a hand on her shoulder. “W-wait–”

She looks a little worried, like she's frightened of rejection again. He feels guilty, and tries to appease her quickly – by reaching for the strap of her dress. It takes some struggling where it's knotted together, but he manages, and once undone the thing doesn't take much to fall to the floor. She stands before him, bare and lovely.

If only he wanted her.

“You are beautiful,” he says, because she is, and even if he doesn't want to touch her he does not mind seeing, the curve of her breast, the suppleness of her skin, the yellow silver keeping her little cunt hidden. There is a scar across her hip, he realises, and it makes him wince. How did she get that?

“Thank you,” she says. “I must say, you're more polite than most of my clients, Your Grace.”

He laughs. _Oh, I know._ “Well I am very well-bred.”

She doesn't answer, simply drops to her knees, using her own discarded robes to cushion her fall. He winces. He meant to take his clothes off first, but he doesn't get the chance, his laces are already undone and she's pulling him out without even bothering to tug them down.

He is not hard.

She seems a little worried at that, and so he closes his eyes – he does not want to see her on her knees like that anyway – and tries to think. He thinks of his first night at the brothel, swallowing cock and begging for seed from some man hidden behind a wall. He thinks of Erryl and his friends, how rough they were, how they choked him and almost killed him. He thinks of that man with his belt and his fist, and the shame he felt that night, brutal and raw.

He thinks of Theon.

He's stirring in her hand, and she makes a pleased, almost proud noise. He's glad for her. Her touch is good, gentle and warm, but it's not quite enough. “Harder,” he gasps, a little afraid to demand like that, but she just giggles.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

 _Your Grace._ The words are still odd, but there's something about this – hearing them with his prick hard and his hands shaking – that makes them easier to comprehend. He moans and, oh so carefully, thrusts a little into her hand.

Then she closes her mouth over the head of his cock. He gasps. _Theon_ , he thinks immediately, remembering that night at Winterfell – the closed eyes and scent of desperation. But no, she's nothing like Theon – she knows what she's doing. She's quiet about it too, not even indulging in the spluttered gagging he always did (sometimes he thinks the men enjoyed that). He cannot resist, his hips quiver against her mouth, he's bucking into her throat and that terrifies him – she takes it easily, but he doesn't want to hurt her.

He winds a hand through her hair to push her away, gently. “W-wait a second,” he says. She looks up, like she doesn't really have a choice. That makes him flinch. He doesn't really know what he's doing, but he tugs roughly at his breeches until they fall around his knees, and he must look ridiculous – he'll fall if he tries to walk anywhere, but that's not the point (or mayhaps it is?). “Could you...” he doesn't really know how to say what he wants, so he finds himself grabbing her hand once more and guiding it up his thigh. It takes her a moment to figure him out, but once he pushes her behind his prick, behind his balls, to the cleft of his arse, it's fairly obvious. He looks down, eyes wide and desperate. “Please?”

She smiles. “Why of course, Your Grace.”

Her finger presses right against him without reservation, and he whimpers as she rubs back and forth, teasing him. It'll hurt – and it _does_ , despite how fucked loose he's been, he gives a small cry of pain as she pries him open.

She pulls back. “Sorry. Should I–?”

He shakes his head. “Don't stop. Gods, don't stop.”

So she nods and carries on, and he gasps with equal parts pleasure and pain as she buries her finger down to the knuckle. “Oh gods,” he moans as she slowly starts to move back and forth, the friction agonising, exploring, searching out that spot that makes him cry out again– “Fuck!”

His prick is throbbing against her cheek now, and she gives a teasing lick over the head before moving upward, sucking at his balls briefly before moving behind those too, her tongue joining her finger – slaving over his hole, and gods yes that's right–

She tries to pull back and he grabs desperately at her hair – he doesn't want to be rough, but he wants– “Please. Don't stop,” he whispers.

A nod and she keeps going, tongue swirling around her finger, getting him wet. Then she tilts her head back and pushes in with her tongue, and he moans, his legs shake as he spreads wider for it, keening and begging, “more, more, more.”

Once his hole is wet enough with spit, she pulls back, and adds a second finger.

Robb mewls with pain and pleasure, then his knees give way and he falls to the ground in a heap.

He's dizzy for a moment, trying to recall what happened, afraid he might have hurt her. From the look on her face though – amused, but not unsympathetic, and maybe even a little smug – he thinks she's fine. She's crawling above him as he lays on his back, and he spreads his legs on instinct. “Is that what you like, Your Grace?” she asks, her sweet shy voice dropping low. “Taking it up the arse?”

 _I shouldn't, she can't know,_ but he nods eagerly, too far gone to try and deny it. She grins as she reaches for his breeches and pulls them all the way off, almost tearing them as she forces them around his boots. She leaves those behind, and his shirt, and there's something wonderfully humiliating about taking it half-dressed like this. “Alright then,” she says, and the gets a puzzled look in her eye, briefly. He pauses, waiting for her to say something, and eventually she seems to make up her mind. “Roll over. Get on your hands and knees. Stay.”

He nods and scrambles to do just that, even as he notices her getting to her feet. He's confused, but does as he's told. Then everything suddenly goes dark and he's even more confused. But she's back soon, kneeling behind him, and there's a clang of metal beside her. He turns his head, and sees the lamp. Oh, of course. Oil.

“Should probably let it cool down first,” she mutters to herself, and then he feels her hands on him again, spreading his cheeks with soft thumbs. “Dirty boy,” she whispers, then just spits on his hole before she starts teasing it with her thumb. “You like it like this?”

He whimpers as he bucks back toward her. Even she seems surprised by his neediness. “Gods, please, yes,” he groans, although he manages not to say all the things he thinks, _I need it like this I need it so much worse than this I know I'm filthy and disgusting and I'm going to get myself killed but gods I just need it one more time –_ her thumb pulls away, still pulling him open, and he squirms before he feels her tongue again, lapping and sucking, but not pushing in again, no matter how he begs. “Please,” he's shaking, and gods, it's dirty what she's doing; whenever he used to do it he always thought of it as just another humiliation, but it's different like this, she has him broken beneath her.

She pulls back, but before he can whine she shoves two fingers into him, rough, and he cries out in pain and pleasure. “You like it when it hurts?” she says, almost hesitant. He nods again, and she buries her fingers to the knuckle. “Alright. You want me to fuck you hard. I can do that. I can fuck you so hard you won't be able to saddle a horse tomorrow.”

Of course, he'll have to do that no matter how much it hurts, but gods the thought of all the men seeing him wince in pain atop his ride – her fingers move back and forth roughly, brushing up against that place inside him more by accident than anything, but he starts keening towards it and she seems to get the hint, finally hitting it square and deliberate.

“There?” she asks, and he nods again. “There we go. Good boy. Dirty boy. Gods,” she mutters, and then her fingers are gone again.

He gasps for breath, shaking so hard he might collapse. She seems to notice that, and gives instructions: “Spread yourself open for me.” He does so, head falling into the dirt ahead of him. It makes it a little hard to breathe, and he has to do so slowly so as not to suck dirt into his mouth. _Maybe if I ask she'll choke me._

Three fingers plunge back inside, coated with warm oil. He cries out as she twists them roughly inside. “There we go, there we go,” she mutters, and he's keening beneath her, fingers fucking him as roughly as they dare. Not roughly enough.

“More.”

“Really?” she seems bemused, but as her fingers dig in deeper he groans and thrusts back toward them. “...You've done this before, haven't you?”

He tenses suddenly around her, and she stops. _Gods,_ he thinks. _What a fool I've been. How could I have let her do this to me? She'll know. Maybe not it all, but enough_ –

She seems a little embarrassed. “Sorry. That's – none of my business.” She has to pause for a moment to regain her footing, and then, as if in apology, she twists her fingers so hard he cries out – he fears she might have scratched him, and his thoughts fly off like ravens (dark wings, dark words). “There you go. Greedy boy, are you? Face down, arse up, begging for more?”

There's still a note of hesitation in her voice, but he can ignore it. “Yes. Please, yes, more.”

“Another finger?”

He whimpers and nods, dirt smearing across his cheeks (after all the filth he's had there). She waits a moment for him to relax some, and then she spits on him again and gently eases her fourth finger in, just the tip. He whines and keens, but she's being careful, he knows she has to be – despite it all this isn't worth the risk for either of them.

(It's never worth the risk.)

“Easy now,” she slides to the first knuckle, and he moans as he feels his body protest – it's been too long since he's had this, being stretched until he might break. Her hands aren't too large, he's had bigger cocks, but–

“Would you like me to put my whole hand in you?”

She sounds like she can't believe what she's saying, and Robb whines and moans again, squirming in agreement. _Even she thinks I'm disgusting,_ and the thought makes him shiver. Not just a whore, a whore's whore. Was has he made of himself?

Her hand pulls back and thrusts in again, rough with all four fingers, and he's screaming as she does it. _Someone will hear_ , he thinks, but mayhaps it doesn't matter? She hesitates again, as if to say _you can't really take this, can you?_

“Please,” he answers.

She sighs and pulls her hand out, and he waits there, wet and trembling and begging. When he feels the fingers return, they drip with so much oil it runs down his legs. They force their way inside him with barely a twinge of pain.

“So desperate, Your Grace,” she whispers, fucking in and out of him with four fingers, suddenly splaying them wide to make him gasp, “I've never seen anything like it. Do you want to be stuffed full?”

He moans. “Gods, yes. Until I–” he bites his lip. _Until there's no room left for anything else._

(The King in the North, the King in the North, the King in the North.)

“Alright.” Her thumb is there, teasing his entrance, and he cannot tell which one of them it is who's shaking like that. Both, probably. “I'm going to put my whole fist inside you. Is that what you want, Your Grace?”

“ _Please_.”

Her thumb pushes inside, the tips of all fingers opening him completely. He thrusts his hips back for the rest. She gasps and he mewls as she starts to press in, twisting her hand back and forth to open him. _It's too much, it'll never work_ , he thinks with a rush of panic – but it will, he's taken it before, he's taken more (her hands are like her, small and delicate), but he's frightened – gods, it's been too long since he was frightened.

She curls her thumb under her other fingers to make them go in more easily, and spits again on his hole, although he doubts that will do much of anything. She finally sinks down to the knuckles, and he whines, spread so wide but not enough, he knows what he needs, right now he knows one thing he _needs_ –

“Go on,” he begs. “All of it. I need a whole hand inside me. I need – I need as much as I can get. Tongue, fingers, fists, cock, anything. Fill me like – like I'm just a hole.”

_I shouldn't say such things._

“Fuck,” she whispers, and then her knuckles start to push through.

He gives a little cry of pain, because it hurts, of course it hurts, but she goes slow and he cannot stop, he can't ever stop. Finally she pushes the widest part of her hand in, shoves a couple more times to manage the rest, and his greedy grasping arse closes around her wrist.

There are tears in his eyes.

She does not fuck him with her hand, not yet, just rolls it back and forth, exploring, pressing hard and soft, hard and soft. Her knuckles push against that most sensitive spot inside him and he sobs. “Seven hells, you are desperate for it,” she's whispering, “are you a sword-swallower too? I bet you are. You'd love a cock in your mouth right now, wouldn't you?”

He moans again. “Yes.” Gods, he's not sucked cock in so _long_.

She sighs a little – with relief? “Filthy thing,” her hand is getting bolder now, moving in and out ever so slightly, “You like sucking cock? Swallowing come? Getting fucked?” he whines and nods desperately. “Is that what you were out in the forest for? Looking for a man to give you what you wanted?”

He freezes for a second. _She knows. She knows what I am._ But what does it matter? Surely, she knew that the second he begged her to stick her whole hand in him. He's already lost. He was lost a long time ago.

“You'd let anyone have you right now, wouldn't you?” she says. _Gods, yes, I would, I'd let anyone do it I'm_ – “Pathetic. Needy. Useless. Little _whore_ –”

Robb chokes on dirt and spit. He closes his eyes and sees only the sea. He's so hot. “Theon–”

And like that he clenches around her wrist and comes, smothering his cries in the cold dark earth. She jumps a little, surprised – she didn't even have to touch him – but doesn't pull away, just gently kneads it out of him with her knuckles, though he hears her hiss slightly as his hole grips her tight.

He's shuddering and sobbing on the cold ground, and her free hand is at his shoulders, rubbing hesitantly. “Easy – easy now, Your Grace,” she says, sounding almost like she's not sure she has the right to be speaking. “I'm going to take it out now, alright?”

He whimpers as she very slowly starts to pull back, the ball of her hand stretching him again. “Sorry,” she whispers as the knuckles come back through, and he gives a little cry of pain again. One by one, the fingers go, until he's left cold and gaping and empty.

It's how it was before, broken and sobbing and disgraced beneath someone who'll never think about him again. It's bliss, complete and total, and he does not move to get up. When he gets up, he will be himself again, the King in the North, and he cannot bear the thought. He can stay like this. He can stay here forever, if he wants – he's a king, and kings can do what they like.

After a long silence, she coughs. “Um, Your Grace,” she says. “I – I don't want to complain, but... on the subject of payment...”

That snaps him out of it. Right, he is not the whore anymore, she is – and she is owed her coin. “Right,” he says, spitting the mud from his lips, and with shaking hands tries to push himself up. As soon as he manages to sit, however, he hisses violently in pain.

“Your Grace!” he feels hands go to his shoulders, trying to keep him upright. “Are you okay?”

A long moment of panting with the ache, and it settles into something gentler. He's not torn, he's sure. He's had a lot worse before. “I'm fine,” he says, and he can't help but lean into her hands. He'll feel it tomorrow, he knows he will – she's right, it will be agony to saddle a horse, and he'll be guilty and hard all day. _Will the men think–?_ he flinches. She knows it all, a common whore he's never met before, and would she tell... he has no reason to trust her. He barely knows her, but she knows him, she knows who he is. She could destroy him, he realises with a flood of terror.

 _Gods, what was I thinking? What I let her do, what I asked her for, what I told her I wanted..._ Some part of him wants to run, wants to hide from it, as if that will make it go away. As if running and hiding ever made anything go away. But he cannot, he realises – if nothing else he's honour-bound to pay her.

He manages to stand. He can't see much of anything, but he tries, eventually making his way back to his desk and grasping for the first coin he finds. She follows him and he pushes it into her hand without looking, his other palm flat on the wood table for support.

She takes it and squints a little, then her eyes go wide and she drops it with a clatter. He's confused, particularly when she looks up at him in shock – and fear? “Your Grace,” she says slowly, “I cannot...”

He frowns and looks back down, echoing her squint. In what little light there is, he sees the coin glint – golden. _Oh_. He realises, with shame, that's too much money – he was mostly paid in copper, sometimes silver, and this must be more money than the poor girl has seen in her life. She must think he wants something – _obscene_ from her (more obscene than what he just had). He pinches it back with a flush. “Sorry,” he says, “it's just – in my position, you forget not everyone – here.”

She blushes as he hands her two stags instead – still a more than fair payment, enough to last her weeks, but not _terrifyingly_ so. “Honestly, I thought – I thought you were just trying to keep me quiet,” she mutters. “About the things you said. And I, I couldn't accept that – not if I was never going to mention it anyway. I know I'm going to sound stupid, but I like to think I have some honour?”

 _Oh._ “You don't sound stupid at all,” he says. “I had a friend who was the same.”

Mayhaps he still does. Where is Ros anyway? “Oh,” she says. She sounds confused, but doesn't ask him to elaborate. Then she blushes again. “Sorry, I'm still a little new to this. Honestly, I didn't really know what I was doing just then. I didn't think I'd do it well enough to be worth _that_ much.”

“You did – you were good.” And he's blushing too, and gods, what fools they are. “And you'll – you'll get more comfortable. With time.”

 _Liar_. But mayhaps it's different when you can just _be_ a whore, you don't have to keep switching back to being a lord – or a king. “Oh, good,” she says. “I mean, I might not have known what I was doing, but I certainly _enjoyed_ doing it. It's not often a king gets on his hands and knees for you.”

He averts his eyes. _I'm no true king at all, am I?_ The shame is starting to settle, and he should probably ask her to leave before he says something he'll regret. Still, mayhaps he should get on his knees and finish her off – if she enjoyed it so. But no, it's too late. He's already paid. He should have thought of it sooner.

When he looks back at her, he's struck once more by how small she is – and how overwhelmed she made him feel. “How old are you?” he asks.

She blinks with surprise. “Fifteen at the last moon, Your Grace.”

“You're younger than me.” Not by much, granted, but he can't help but notice. Does it matter?

“I'm younger than most of my clients,” she says. “You hardly have to feel guilty about it.”

 _But I feel guilty about everything._ “What's your name?” _What's it to me?_

“Maricella,” she says, still surprised.

“Is that your real name?”

“...Well if I was going to think up a fake one, and I was following the Stark army, I'd try and think of something further from the Lannister princess' name.”

Robb nods. “You should think up a fake one,” he says. “It's safer.”

“Is the King in the North giving me whoring advice?”

He blushes and looks away. _Well I've been doing it longer than you have._ “I'm just trying to help.”

When he looks back, she's smiling at him. “Thank you,” she says. Then she bites her lip. “Do you mind if I return the favour?”

He blinks in confusion, but nods, and she gives a long sigh, winding her fingers together hesitantly, then frowning and wiping them on her dress. She must have put her clothes back on while he was on the ground. How long did he just lie there? “You ought to be careful,” she mutters, chewing on her lip.

He knows where this is going. He grips the desk tight and says nothing, not trusting what will come out – she doesn't know him, she owes him nothing, and he has no right to snap at her. But he does not trust what might come out of his mouth, because gods, he does not want to hear this again.

“I did hear – what you said. When you finished. Lord Greyjoy's name.” Robb flinches. Gods, she knows it all – he is a fool. “I mean it's none of my business,” she says quickly. “Trust me, I've met far worse deviants than you. And it's really not fair – if it were up to be, you could be buggered by any man you please and no-one would give it a second thought, but...”

“But I am a king,” he says flatly. “I am _the_ king. The king can't afford to become known as a sword-swallower.”

“I'm sorry,” she mutters, and he looks up into her eyes. She's telling the truth – she really does feel sorry for him. A common whore pities the King in the North.

“What's it to you?” he asks.

She sighs, chewing her lip again. “My father,” she says. He blinks. “He was – one of your father's guards. Fredrik, his name was.”

Robb knew a few of his father's guards by name, but not a Fredrik. He says nothing and she continues. “I mean – I suppose I didn't know him _that_ well. It's not as if my parents were married in a Godswood and we all live in one little house. No, I am – in the family business, if you will.” She pauses. “But most men, if they get a whore pregnant – well they say that's _her_ problem, and never think of it again. But he wasn't like that. No, I was his daughter, and he loved me more than anything.”

He thinks of Jon, and it all hurts so much he has to close his eyes. _I miss you. Did you not realise how much we loved you? If I had told you that, would you have stayed?_

“My father visited me as much as he could, sent us every copper he had spare, told me so many stories about Winterfell it was almost like I was living there.” She gives him a small smile. “I almost feel like I know you, Robb Stark.”

 _You do not._ But he doesn't tell her that. “Things were always a little strange between him and my mother, but they both wanted to do the right thing for me. And when she died and I had to start – I knew he didn't like it, but he never said a word. I was still his little girl, after all. Nothing I could do would ever change that.”

 _What would my mother think?_ “The Lannisters killed him, didn't they?” he asks, opening his eyes.

She nods, and has to wipe away tears. “When they arrested your father,” she says. “He was a good man. The best man I've ever known. And he was slaughtered like vermin.”

He flinches. He was slaughtered because of Robb's father – the best man _he's_ ever known. Because of Lord Stark. He thinks of little Jeyne Poole – is she still alive? Where is she? Does she cry herself to sleep at night with grief?

How many people died for his father? How many will die for him? This girl has as much right to hate him as Cass did.

“You're my only hope,” she says, taking him by surprise. “I'm just a northern whore no-one's ever heard of. I can't do a thing to the Lannisters. But you are the King in the North – you can make them pay for what they've done. The only chance I have of avenging my father... is making sure you win this fucking war.”

Of course, power. Even when he was on all fours and begging her to put her hand in him, he still had more than she will ever have. And yet, she doesn't hate him for that – she just wants him to use his power right.

“Maricella,” he says, looking into her eyes and his voice dropping low – like Father's. “I promise you: I will not rest until the people who killed our fathers are rotting in the ground.”

How can he promise her that? He doesn't even know who killed her father – one of the Lannister soldiers, but which one? They have thousands. And was the man who put a sword in Fredrik's belly (or however they did it) really the one who killed him?

And for that matter, who killed _his_ father? Ser Illyn Payne, apparently, but could Robb kill him for it – if the man would have been killed himself if he'd refused? They say Joffrey ordered it, but Queen Cersei began the whole scheme – he could kill them both, but who else? _We'll kill them all,_ his mother promised. But how far does it go? Will he have to wipe out the whole Westerlands just to feel some sort of peace?

 _He who passes the sentence should swing the sword,_ his father always told him. Mayhaps that was not for honour. Mayhaps that was just to keep things simple.

It's a lie, it's so clearly a lie, and yet Maricella smiles at him. And she bows, ever so slightly. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

With that she leaves, disappearing into the black, and he knows he'll never see her again. He sighs and reaches for wine, pouring himself a glass. Then with a flush of embarrassment he realises he never put his breeches back on, and rushes over to do so, wincing with pain the whole time.

 _What now?_ he thinks as he sips. He did it again, sort of – he was not paid this time, but it was the same thing, rough and painful and humiliating. Degrading. That's what he's always wanted, to be degraded, to forget about what he really is and what he's really for. But he's not a little lordling in his castle anymore, he's a king at war, and there are too many people who want nothing more than to degrade him also. The Lannisters would _love_ it if he was nothing but a hole for cock.

He still feels like he needs it, but he can't afford to need it – he is not the one who needs, he is the one who's needed. Maricella, she needs him. She needs him to avenge her father, because no-one else can. His mother, Bran and Rickon, Sansa and Arya – they all need him. And he still has no idea what to do.

Maricella is right, it's not fair. He is too young for this, too weak, too desperate, too much a born whore. But he was not born a whore, he was born a lord, and no matter how many cocks he sucks that will never change. And he is a  _king_ now, the only one they have. Whether he's any good at being a king is not the point.

Temptation, that's the problem. It's just so easy to get lost, to forget who he is and give in – to run away, like a child. _You're not a boy anymore._ Does that make him a man? He supposes it must.

(He did just lay with a woman for the first time, after all.)

The Lannisters killed Maricella's father, like they killed Robb's father – but now Robb is the father of the kingdom. He made Maricella the same promise his mother made him: _we'll kill them all._  Gods, he is not old enough to be anyone's father. But he is the only one that girl has. It's a strange thing to think about a woman who's just fucked him with her fist, but Robb thinks all sorts of strange things.

So what will he do now? Whatever Lord Stark would do. What _would_ Lord Stark do? What would Father do?

 _Rescue Sansa and Arya,_ he thinks immediately. Father loved nothing more than his children, except mayhaps his wife – he only married her for duty, and yet Robb's never known any man to love a woman more. How could he learn to love duty so? (Robb was only born for duty, Father wasn't even there when he was. Did Father learn to love him just the same?) But how? He cannot trade the Kingslayer for them. The Warden of the North for the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, that would have been a fair deal, but two young girls – the men would never accept it. Not if it set Jaime Lannister free to murder their sons again. Robb owes Rickard Karstark vengeance too, but he cannot give it yet. The war doesn't need Sansa and Arya.

 _But I need them, if I don't see my sisters again I'll go mad,_ but he went mad long ago and he is not the one who needs. If he starts making mistakes because of what he _needs_ , he'll lose his men. He'll lose the war. And what would happen to Arya and Sansa then? While he lives, the Lannisters can't afford to hurt them too badly – they are just valuable enough. But if he got them back, sent them to Winterfell, and then lost? They'd be slaughtered, and Bran and Rickon too. No, it is not worth it. If he ever wants to see his sisters again, it cannot be now.

(He does not see Sansa half-naked and crying, her dress torn from her body.)

It makes so much sense, and yet, yet. _I can't just leave them there. What will my mother think?_ She will not understand why he won't bring back her daughters. He barely understands it. He just wants to storm into King's Landing and take them back. But he can't. _I can't reach them. I don't even have a fleet._

He pauses as he raises his glass to his lips. He sees the sea, and the forest, and smells the wine. Temptation.

_But if I did have a fleet..._


	15. childish things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It could have been anyone, it had been anyone, many times. It never seemed to bother Theon, he never seemed jealous. Why would he be, it was always him in the end. Robb flinches when he remembers what he said that last night at Winterfell together, before it went wrong. _I want you more than anyone. All of them, they're just substitutes. I can't ever stop thinking about you._
> 
> Why wasn't it only Theon? Surely that would have been wiser, safer, if Theon could give him what he wanted (could Theon give him what he wanted?). If he needed a man to fuck him until he felt like nothing but a whore, fine, but why exactly did he need to be so literal about it?
> 
> But what would that have meant, if he kept Theon by his side always, if he raised two children with him, and he lay in his bed and his bed alone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So (probably) the penultimate chapter here folks! Also, the whole confusing-amalgamation-of-book-and-show-canon thing gets _really_ confusing here - basically the first two bits are rewrites of show scenes, but then the last bit throws show canon out entirely. *shrug*

Mother does not approve of his plans.

“You don't want Balon Greyjoy for an ally,” she tells him, and he thinks _Balon Greyjoy's not really the point._ But he is, he must be – his fleet at least. He tells his mother he needs the ships and she still is not pleased, but he cannot tell her the truth.

“I understand you don't trust Lord Greyjoy–”

“I don't trust him because he is not trustworthy!”

 _Well I never trust any of them_ , he thinks, and digs his nails into his palm. It is not the same, it is the complete opposite, in fact. And yet the look on Mother's face – _what does she think of me?_ If he sends Theon away, will she suspect why? But if he keeps him here, she will suspect, eventually. He has no choice. (Does he ever?)

“Your father had to go to war to put down his rebellion.”

 _He did. Did being left behind hurt you as much as it hurt me?_ He can hardly accuse her of hypocrisy however, not when he knows he did worse, he left Bran and Rickon behind to – Gods, he hasn't written to them in weeks. “And now I'm the one rebelling against the crown,” _and I am not trustworthy either Mother, I never was you just assumed, why did you do that to me? You wouldn't trust me with a bowl of soup if you knew._ “Before me, it was Father.” _And after Father it is me, can't we ever rest?_ “You married one rebel and birthed another.”

“I birthed more than just rebels,” and he knows what's coming but it still hurts so much, Mother looks just like– “A fact you seem to have forgotten.”

 _I'll get them back, I promise, I will. That's why we need these ships, we can just sail into King's Landing and pick Sansa and Arya up._ He does not tell her that. He knows even if he does get his fleet it won't be so simple, he needs a _plan_ , and until he has one he will not give her false hope. But there's not much point to forming a plan until he has the ships.

“If I trade the Kingslayer for two girls, my bannermen will string me up by my feet,” and gods she must hate him for it, he hates himself for it, Arya and Sansa will probably never forgive him but he has no choice, he has to protect them, and they'll never be safe if he loses the war, it doesn't matter if his brothers and sisters will never love him again – he'd rather they live hating him than die loving him.

“You want to leave Sansa in the Queen's hands?!” _I want my little sister back! I want my sisters and my brothers – all three of them, all four of them – and my mother and my father! But it doesn't matter what I want!_ “And Arya? I haven't heard a word about Arya. What are we fighting for if not for them?”

“It's more complicated than that!” He is fighting for them, if he doesn't fight he'll never see them again, but if he fights and loses he'll never see them again, and Bran and Rickon, he'll never see them again either, and Father – he must avenge Father, he must _become_ Father – and Maricella, the whore who loved her father as much as this whore ever did, he barely even knows her but he must fight for her too, her and all the North, he must fight for every man, woman and child born in his land.

(He was born at Riverrun.)

The silence between them is unbearable. _Please don't look at me like that_ , he thinks. _I am trying, Mother. I am trying to be the man you need me to be. I want the girls back as much as you do, but it's not about us, it never was._

She sighs and sits again, and he thinks he's won the argument, although there's no victory in it. Mayhaps he wanted her to win. Mayhaps he wanted her to give him some reason that no, it would be fine to trade Jaime Lannister for his sisters and let him do whatever he wanted with the rest of the North, and it would be fine to turn around and go back to Winterfell and be with Bran and Rickon again, it would be just fine for them all to go back home and hole up in their castle and all be together again, be a family again.

(Apart from Father, and apart from Jon.)

“It's time for me to go home,” she says, eventually, and he does not expect it to hurt so. “I haven't seen Bran or Rickon in months.”

 _You did not see me for months_ , he thinks before he can stop himself. _I haven't seen them in months either. If I can't go home to them, why can you?_

Because it is not the same, she is not Lord Stark, she is Lady Stark, and her duty is different. He was honour-bound to leave his brothers behind. She is honour-bound to go back to them. _And me? Isn't she honour-bound to stay with me?_

(Family, duty, honour. Mayhaps there's a reason madness runs in the family.)

No, he should want to let her go, Bran and Rickon deserve that – they're just boys, all alone in that castle (Robb was just a boy). And Bran is Lord of Winterfell now. Every night Robb prays Bran will be alright, than Bran will be _better_ than him, that whatever part of Father's honour or Mother's Robb just did not get will have passed to him instead, and he will cope. But it never feels enough, because Bran is just a child, he needs his mother. Can Robb really be selfish enough to want to keep her from him, just because he too feels like a child who still needs his mother?

(He remembers her dead eyes as she watched over Bran's body. _You took her from me first, Bran._ )

He supposes it does not matter. It's not as if she can go back, or stay.

“You can't go to Winterfell,” he says, and she looks utterly bewildered. “Tomorrow, you ride south to the Stormlands.”

She does not look any less bewildered. “Why in the name of all the Gods–”

“Because I need you to negotiate with Renly Baratheon.” It is true, in the same way it's true he needs Balon Greyjoy's fleet – mayhaps it is, mayhaps it isn't, they cannot know until the war is done, but that's the reason he gives even if he knows it's not the point. But he cannot let her stay – he cannot need her so, not when losing her (and Jon, and all of them) is what began his downfall in the first place. He cannot let her go back to Winterfell either. If she goes back to Winterfell, he won't be able to help himself, he will flee back home to be with his family again and then the North, and its king, would be lost completely. He would have let Father down even more thoroughly than he has already.

(Mayhaps that's not why. Mayhaps it's because he can just barely bring himself to send her away, but if she left again, it would kill him. _You came back, but not for me._ )

No, she has to go somewhere else. Some place he's never been, where he couldn't run and hide behind her skirts if he wanted to. If he cannot cope without her, if he does the things that will lose him this war as soon as his mother's not watching – then he was always going to lose, and they were all always going to die, and so it's best to put them all out of their misery soon.

He does not tell her that, obviously, instead he tells her of Lord Renly's army – the Tyrells, as Theon was right about that letter, apparently (Robb wonders if he was right about something else involving Lord Renly, but it's best he not negotiate directly, just in case). She still doesn't understand, and reminds him he has a hundred lords (he doesn't think he had many lords, but did he have a hundred men?).

“And which of them do I trust more than you?” he asks, even though none of them left him, none of them made him love them enough he'd care if they left him (except the one). “If Renly sides with us, we'll outnumber them two-to-one. When they feel the jaws start to shut, they'll sue for peace. We'll get the girls back, and we'll go home.”

 _It can't be that simple_. But she stares at him a long while, then nods. “I will ride at first light.”

He does not expect it to hurt so.

Robb pulls her in close and kisses her brow – he cannot forgive her, not yet (mayhaps he never will) but he still loves her more than anything (except perhaps his brothers and sisters, and–). Mayhaps he lingers a little too long, because he doesn't want to let go, doesn't want to let her leave.

(Sometimes he thinks he was lucky it was a man with black hair who wanted to be bound and blindfolded, and not a woman with red. Because he would have, he knows he would have, and then he would have been truly doomed.

But how did this begin but with Ros' hand on his prick?)

“We will all be together again soon, I promise.” Father is already dead, and she wouldn't want Jon back, and he cannot promise her a thing. But he does. It's the same sort promise she made him, that's they'd kill them all, and mayhaps he should not have to make those sorts of promises but who else can?

She pulls back, and looks up at him like she's on the edge of tears – then smiles. “You've done so well,” she says. “Your father would be proud.”

That stuns him speechless. _No. No he wouldn't._

* * *

He visits the Kingslayer, briefly. The man does not look well. Mayhaps Robb should see to it he is cared for better, but he cannot bring himself to, for a whole range of reasons (vengeance, or desire? What does he want more, to kill the man, or fuck him? He doesn't know anymore. He reminds himself it doesn't matter what he wants).

“The King in the North,” Lannister calls him, of course he does, but there is something in his voice – something both smug and bitter. Something like _you are no true king boy_. Robb is glad his armour is long enough to hide anything. “I keep expecting you to leave me in one castle or another for safekeeping, but instead you drag me from camp to camp... have you grown fond of me, is that it? I've never seen you with a girl.” 

Robb's pulse races. _Does he know?_ But no, he can't. Robb's never been anything but the perfect lordling – king – to his prisoner. _But mayhaps he sees the way I look at him._

Well, let him see. He can't prove anything.

He gives an honest enough explanation to Ser Jaime, one about trusting his bannermen with his own life but not the Kingslayer's ( _I never trust any of them_ ), one that says nothing about keeping a small temptation, not an overwhelming one like Theon is, close enough to resist it. Lannister seems almost _charmed._ “Smart boy,” he says.

Heat and fear flood Robb's veins.

“What's wrong? Don't like being called a boy?” _I like being called a boy just fine. I like being called all sorts of things._ “Insulted?”

 _I like that too._ He looks to Grey Wind, who snarls, and starts to prawl. “You insult yourself, Kingslayer,” he says. “You've been defeated by a boy. Been held captive, by a boy...” Grey Wind is getting closer now, and Robb can see the fear in Lannister's eyes, “...perhaps you'll be killed by a boy.”

 _I'm nothing but a filthy little whore, I can barely keep myself from getting on my knees and begging for your cock right here in this filthy cage where anyone could see us, and yet here you are, chained to a post for me to do whatever I like with. You're disgusting_.

Right, that's why he's here. “Stannis Baratheon sent ravens to all the high lords of Westeros,” he says as Grey Wind arrives by his side. “King Joffrey Baratheon is neither a true king, nor a true Baratheon – he's your bastard son.”

Jaime Lannister is disgusting, a murderer, an oathbreaker, and now a sisterfucker. _And I am more disgusting, because I still want him._

He flinches when he remembers Jon, that man who wasn't Jon. But even if he was – he and Jon are only half-brothers, after all (the blood tie is just as strong). And they could never breed offspring.

 _Ser Jaime tried to kill Bran,_ Robb reminds himself.

( _And I wished Bran dead._ )

The Kingslayer doesn't confess anything, but Robb expected as much. It doesn't matter, he knows it all, says it all anyway: “And you, you pushed my brother from a window because he saw you with the queen.”

He sinks his fingers into Grey Wind's fur. What he is holding the wolf back from, he can't be sure.

A little later, Lannister says: “Three victories don't make you a conqueror."

_I am no conqueror. I am a willing little piece of flesh, ready to be had by any man who wants me. I'd let your whole army fuck me if I could. I'd let you fuck me, the man who crippled my little brother, the man who started it all and made me into this._

(Who did make him into this, really?)

“It's better than three defeats,” is what he says.

He turns on his heel and leaves Jaime to Grey Wind, trusting the wolf to take care of it. He has other things to do. He has to talk to Theon.

* * *

“You're sending me away?”

It's not the response Robb was hoping for.

“I'm sending you back to Pyke, to negotiate with your father,” he says, slowly and diplomatically. _I could do with the practice._ “Theon, I'm sending you back home.”

Theon frowns, and Robb sighs. Is that a lie? He doesn't know. Theon hasn't seen Pyke in years, and yet he always talks about it like it's home. Robb would have thought he'd be thrilled to be going back.

(Mayhaps he expects Theon to be as eager to leave as everyone else.)

“He's not seen me since I was a child,” says Theon, chewing his lip. “Why would he listen to me?”

“Because you're his son,” says Robb. “His flesh and blood. If there's one man in the North he will listen to...”

Theon seems to be thinking it over and Robb, he knows he shouldn't, but he finds himself kneeling, drawing level to where Theon sits on his bed. _I won't do anything_ , he tells himself. _We're just talking._

“This is incredibly important to me, Theon,” Robb says. _This might be the only way I'll ever see my sisters again._ “And it's something you can do for me. This is something only you can do for me.”

Theon looks surprised, and blinks a couple of times. There is something cold in his eyes, something that makes Robb shiver, and not in a pleasant way. Slowly, a smirk starts to spread across his face.

“Could've been anyone, huh Stark?”

Robb blinks in return. “What?”

Theon snorts. “Just needed a body to warm your bed, keep your mind off what a poor little lonely lordling you were with your mummy and daddy gone. You came to me because I was there and you were pretty sure I wouldn't tell. Is that is?”

He's struck dumb. What can he say to that? It could have been anyone, it had been anyone, many times. It never seemed to bother Theon, he never seemed jealous. Why would he be, it was always him in the end. Robb flinches when he remembers what he said that last night at Winterfell together, before it went wrong. _I want you more than anyone. All of them, they're just substitutes. I can't ever stop thinking about you._

Why wasn't it only Theon? Surely that would have been wiser, safer, if Theon could give him what he wanted (could Theon give him what he wanted?). If he needed a man to fuck him until he felt like nothing but a whore, fine, but why exactly did he need to be so literal about it?

But what would that have meant, if he kept Theon by his side always, if he raised two children with him, and he lay in his bed and his bed alone? What would that have meant, if Balon Greyjoy had finally dropped off the edge of the world, and Theon had to return home to be Lord of the Iron Islands like he always said he was born to be? Or worse, what would that have meant if Lord Greyjoy chose to take advantage of the North being left in the hands of a weak and foolish green boy, to rise again in rebellion, and Robb would have to kill Theon to prove he was not exactly what his father thought of him? He couldn't afford to depend on Theon like that.

Robb might have been Lord of Winterfell, but he was still too young to take a lady wife.

He does not say any of that, however. Instead he says: “Does that bother you?”

Before he can stop himself he thinks _If it bothers you, punish me. Beat me, choke me, fuck me. Make me your whore, once and for all. You know I won't resist. You know I never can._

“Nah,” Theon shrugs. Robb sighs and looks away. He knows it's a lie, but he cannot look at Theon and see him hiding his hurt. If he does, he will want to apologise. He remembers how he tried to apologise to Theon last time he felt the need. He will beg Theon to fuck his throat again, to use him for what he's good for, to keep him for his own and then just stay. He can't afford for Theon to stay. If Theon stays he'll die.

(If Theon leaves he thinks he might die, but he'll worry about that later.)

“Just curious, really,” Theon says, quiet, and when Robb looks back all the hurt is gone. _He never loved me, he loved Lord Stark,_ Robb remembers and he cannot know how true it is but it helps to think of it. _It's not me he's so reluctant to leave._

“I'm sure you'll have plenty of other... opportunities, on your journey,” and Robb blushes like he's the same boy he once was, like none of it happened at all.

Theon laughs. “Damn right I will. The women of Pyke won't know what they've missed. Well, not at first, but then I'll make every last one of them aware of it and they'll never want to let me go again. If I'm a bit late back Stark, that'll be why.”

Robb laughs along, but it dies on his lips quickly. Fear swells in him, no matter how he tries to smother it. “You'll come back,” he says.

That earns a frown. “Of course I will.”

His mouth hangs open a second, then Robb averts his gaze. _Of course he will. He was the one who never left. And now you're sending him away?_ But it's more complicated than that, of course it is. He looks back, and he and Theon stare at each other for a long moment.

Robb stands before he can do something stupid, like touch him, or suck him, or worst of all kiss him. “I need to get back to my bannermen,” he says. “My uncles want to discuss strategy. You'll leave at first light.”

Theon nods and does not stand. “Will you come say goodbye in the morning?” he says with a smirk, like Robb won't know how much the question means to him.

“If I have time.” His answer is perfectly honest, the most honest thing he's said in months, and Theon chuckles like that's good enough. Robb loves him so much for lying to him like that.

He sighs, turns on his heel, and leaves. As he closes Theon's door he thinks of an old toybox he had when he was a child, not the sort of finely-carved thing that would befit a little lordling, but something that seemed to be made out of an old wine barrel. When he was eleven, someone – Father, Jon, Mother, Theon? He cannot remember – told him it was childish, so he got rid of it. Or did he? He doesn't think he threw it away. So where is it now?

Mayhaps Bran has it.

As the cold night air hits him, Robb wants to go back. To tell Theon – to beg him – not to leave, to hold him and kiss him and tell him he loves him, to tell him he needs him. But he won't. It's not as if they'll never see each other again – Theon will be gone a few months at worst, no longer than Mother was. And Robb cares for Theon, and he'll miss him, but he doesn't _need_ him.

And the King in the North needs those ships.


	16. wineskin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a wolf in the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, this angstfest is finally done! I'm so sorry Robb.

Bran and Rickon are dead.

That's what they tell him, that and Theon killed them, and it doesn't make sense, it doesn't make any sense at all, but mayhaps it doesn't matter, mayhaps it's not real, mayhaps he's gone mad, mayhaps he went mad long ago, so mayhaps it doesn't matter either when he takes this Westerling girl into his bed.

He doesn't know her name, he never knows any of their names, but her eyes are kind, the colour of honey – he smells smoke – and he cannot remember whose idea it was but that doesn't matter either, not now, Bran and Rickon are dead and he'll never see them again and mayhaps he always knew he'd never see them again, but Theon, how could he, how could Robb not know, and so he lets this Westerling girl have her way with him because that is what he does. _I'm just a whore, I'd let anyone do it._

She's on top of him, because she has to be, he's too weak to get on top of her – he stares into her eyes even when he can barely keep his open, he needs to see that warm soft brown (the colour of earth, not the sea) but then it gets good for her, she closes her eyes and bites her lip and _all_ he can see is Theon on top of him, that last night at Winterfell, the last time he spoke to the brothers Theon killed and it hurts too much, it doesn't hurt enough, he grabs her hand and presses it across his arrow wound.

 _Theon was good with arrows. He saved Bran from wildlings with one._ It doesn't make sense, why would he have done that? It must have all been a trick. Save Bran so he could be the one to kill him later. Theon never loved Robb, he never even loved Lord Stark, he hated them both and played a sick game so one day he could have his revenge. Robb was probably the only person alive desperate enough to fall for it.

Bran must have been so scared, so confused, he must have tried so hard to do the right thing, and how could Robb have ever left him? How could he have ever managed it? He was even younger than Robb was.

(He knew Bran would never forgive him. Now he really never will.)

The Westerling girl's eyes snap open. She looks confused, and he sobs as he presses her palm against him harder. “Please,” he begs, and her eyes, they're so kind, even as she drives her nails into the plaster she just applied – she would do anything for him, right now, and he decides he loves her, this girl whose name he doesn't even know.

 _He always did so much for me_ , Robb wished Bran dead, only the once but he did, and Theon did that for him, and he took Rickon while he was at it. He wanted to burn Winterfell to the ground, and Theon did that too. _Fuck you, Greyjoy, fuck you to all seven hells._

(Robb did that.)

“Hit me,” he begs and his voice is so weak he's sure she can't hear him. “Please, hit me.”

But hear him she does, and she looks even more confused, but still so very kind and so she does as he asks – it's barely a tap, but he's frail enough it makes him moan anyway, and he begs for more. “Hit me.”

She does it again and she almost looks _frightened_ now, no that's not right he shouldn't be frightening her, but he shouldn't be fucking her at all, but he shouldn't have fucked Theon, he shouldn't have fucked anyone but it's too late now – it doesn't matter if he never does it again, he'll always be what he is now and he'll never be anything more – a whore.

And so he lies back, and lets a girl whose name he doesn't know beat him until he spills in her cunt, all the while thinking about the man who murdered his brothers 

* * *

Her name is Jeyne, and he's going to marry her. No-one understands, not even Mother, they all think he's gone mad – and they're right, but they have no idea why. But he can't not marry her, he can't have done it again, given himself over to the first person willing to have him because being responsible for his brothers and his castle and _Theon_ hurt so much he didn't want to be himself anymore. Because he always feels like that, and if he did it again he _will_ do it again, he'll do it so many times even he won't be able to keep it secret, and they'll lose and mayhaps it doesn't matter when his siblings are already gone but he can't, he can't, he can't.

Her name is Jeyne and she is wonderful, she is kind and and brave and pure, he loves her, he has to love her, if he doesn't love her then she could have been anyone, he'd have let anyone do it, so he has to marry her, he wants to marry her, and she shouldn't want to marry him – she's too good for him, he wishes he could offer her a better man, but he knows other men won't want her now, they'll think she's a whore. It's the stupidest thing he's ever heard but people think all sorts of stupid things, they think he's a king, and he cannot let her take the blame for what a whore he is. Ros had a sense of honour, Maricella had a sense of honour, even Cass had a sense of honour and that's why she always hated him, and Robb just prays one day he can say the same thing.

Mother doesn't understand and Robb can barely bring himself to look at her some days, because she tried to warn him but he didn't listen, he couldn't listen, he'd doomed himself already. But he can't leave her, not when she hasn't left him – when he heard Bran was dead he assumed she would follow, in the mind if not the body, like she did when he just lay there like he was dead. He couldn't blame her, not this time, and how could he have blamed her for it the first time? It's not as if she had a choice. He can see it in her eyes, when she comes to say goodnight before she goes to bed, how much she wishes she could sleep and never wake up, that she could be with Father and Arya and Rickon and Bran again, and wait for Sansa–

(Sansa, he could have traded the Kingslayer for her, Mother got desperate enough to free him behind Robb's back and it didn't work – but mayhaps it's good she did anyway, Robb doesn't know how much longer he would have resisted temptation, and he wanted Lannister who tried to kill Bran, he wanted Lannister _because_ he tried to kill Bran, and it makes him sick to think he has a type.

He fooled himself into thinking he had a plan and now he'll never see Sansa again, he'll never see any of them again. Mayhaps Sansa Stark is already dead, mayhaps there is only Lady Lannister now, and she'll be killed the second she's no longer useful and she'll never forgive him – Robb could have survived his brothers and sisters hating him if it kept them alive, but now they're dead and they died hating him, and it hurts so much it's like he's dying too.)

–But every time she comes back, she comes back for him and him alone, and he has to stay, he's all she has left.

(And he's nothing, but she doesn't have to know that.)

On his wedding night he fucks Jeyne six times, because they need an heir, it is his _duty_ to fuck her now – like it was his parents' duty to fuck each other on their wedding night, and what sort of heir did that create?

(He has an heir, he has Jon if he will come back – he has to come back, now Bran and Rickon are gone they are the only sons of Stark left, but Bran and Rickon wouldn't be gone if Robb had any right to call himself a Stark, and Jon has a thousand brothers on the watch, so why would he come back? Robb can only pray.

It hurts Mother, he knows that, but Jon is more Father's son than he ever was, he is more _Lord Stark_ than Robb ever was, and Robb doesn't know how he's going to look in those grey eyes, Stark eyes, _Father's_ eyes without remembering searching for them behind black cloth, but he has no choice, it's not about him.)

He tries to do it right, he tries not to be so whorish, he lies on top of her but she's small and he's terrified he'll crush her, he doesn't have the right, and he finds himself grabbing her hand and winding it around his throat.

Her name is Jeyne and her honey-sweet eyes still look so confused, but he begs and she does as he asks, though she can barely bring herself to squeeze. It's not enough, it'll never be enough. But it will have to do. 

* * *

There's blood gurgling from his mouth, but if there wasn't he might laugh.

After all this time he died for fucking his wife. 

* * *

There is a wolf in the woods. The hunt is done and he can taste blood in his mouth, he should stop to sleep, but he's so thirsty.

He sees a river rush by, as wide as the Trident, and he feels so happy he could die. With a whimper he paws over, and bows his head to drink.

The water tastes rancid, bitter and tangy, and cheap.


End file.
